


to the water’s edge

by ebenroot



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Brief Minor Character Death, Disney/Ghibli-esque, M/M, POV Alternating, Prophetic Visions, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-10 00:27:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 84,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12900081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebenroot/pseuds/ebenroot
Summary: Once upon a time, in a secluded tower that rests upon a cliff and is surrounded by tall trees, there lives a young man that faces a certain conundrum:Katsuki Yuuri has fallen in deeply in love with a man he has never met.





	1. Prologue

If this fairy tale were to begin - as fairy tales often did - it would begin as this:

Once upon a time, a child was born amid a storm, in a small little cottage that sat at the edge of a forest.

His cries did very little to drown out the noise of the torrid storm and harsh winds that thrashed against the walls and windows of the cottage. Yet, to the child’s parents, his cries were the only sound they can hear. To them, it was a sound blessed from Heaven above.

“Yuuri,” the mother - Hiroko - told the midwife when she was asked for a name. There were tears at the corners of Hiroko’s eyes that her husband Toshiya gently wiped away with the edge of his thumb. “His name is Yuuri.”

The child was wiped clean with a warm cloth, then swaddled in a wool blanket and handed to his mother. Hiroko fell in love with the sleepy flutter of his eyes, the scrunch of his button nose, and the way his tiny fingers drew into clenched fists when he yawned. She was captivated by his size the most, just a small little thing in her arms shrouded in the blanket.

“He’s beautiful,” Toshiya choked out with a proud smile. “He looks just like you.”

Hiroko’s laugh sounded like she were floating. In that moment, she felt she partially was.

The midwife struck a match and lit the candle at the bedside. “I do not wish to interrupt,” the woman began, and smoothed out the wrinkles of her canary yellow dress, “but the Storyteller will be arriving shortly. We must make ready of his arrival.”

Toshiya did his best not to show the way his posture stiffened upon mention of ‘the Storyteller’. He directed his attention to the window and the scenery outside, where the trees violently swayed back and forth, and lighting ripped through the darkened skies every few moments.

“In this storm? The Storyteller couldn’t _possibly_ come out to our little cottage,” Toshiya chided. He adjusted his glasses with a trembling hand.

The midwife gave a disproving shake of her head. “The Storyteller always comes at the birth of a newborn child, no matter the condition,” she said.

Toshiya wished that weren’t the truth.

For the next few hours, they waited. The midwife moved from tending to Hiroko and Yuuri at their bedside, to patiently waiting by the door of the bedroom, listening for the sound of a telling knock. Toshiya did his part and fluffed Hiroko’s pillows, keeping his wife and child awake for as long as possible.

“Maybe he will not come,” Toshiya said while he wrapped an arm around Hiroko’s shoulders. Yuuri’s eyes have long since fluttered closed in sleep, Hiroko close to doing the same if it were not for Toshiya’s touch that nudged her awake.

The midwife shook her head. “No. He will come. He always comes. Always.”

They wait longer, longer, longer, to the point where rainwater began to leak through the cottage’s soggy roof and created an incessant _drip-drip-drip_ at the foot of the bed. Toshiya excused himself to hurry downstairs to their kitchenette to fetch a saucer to capture the water.

Before he was able to make his way towards the stairs, there were three knocks at the front door that sounded like thunderous booms.

Toshiya froze in his spot and stared at the door with wide eyes. It was quiet, then there were three more knocks that followed, even louder and more intense.

“Oh!” a shout from above sounded, and the midwife hurried down the stairs past Toshiya and to the front door. She pulled it open and bowed her head. “I apologize, My Lord! The storm outside did well to hide the sound of your knocks.”

In the doorway stood a man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a heavy cloak draped over his frame that looked as though it were made from the cosmos. His skin was a blanched white, while his wiry hair was just as pale. His lips - thinly pulled into a disingenuous smile - were bright red, as if fresh blood were smeared over his mouth just before his arrival.

The Storyteller.

“Please, My Lord,” the midwife said, and invited the man inside. She gestured to the stairs. “The child and his mother await.”

The Storyteller’s black boots sounded like rumbling thunder as he walked, and he left no trace of water even though he was out in a storm moments prior. Toshiya bowed his head and averted his eyes as the Storyteller passed. The Storyteller acknowledged his presence with nothing more than a lazy glance with his red red eyes.

“Come, come!” the midwife cooed, and hurried Toshiya up the stairs as well. “Listening to your child’s Story is always such a treat!”

Usually, it was. A Story was a wondrous spectacle of lights and colors, sounds and images and smells that were crafted from the Storyteller’s words. Toshiya had witnessed only two in his life, when his younger brother was born and when Mari was born. His younger brother’s Story was excitement, wrought with duels among knights and fighting dragons, a Story meant for a Hero.

Mari’s story, on the other hand...

Toshiya closed his eyes. No. No, he can’t think about that. This will be better. This _must_ be better.

The midwife opened the door for the Storyteller and Toshiya to enter the bedroom, then closed it shut with a smile and a whispered, “Congratulations” to Toshiya.

Hiroko sat upright in her bed, her appearance as stiff in posture as Toshiya’s. Toshiya, meanwhile, awkwardly shuffled along the side of the room, still holding the saucer meant to catch the rainwater.

Yuuri was still fast asleep, though not for long.

“The child,” the Storyteller spoke in his gravely baritone, “present him.”

Hiroko solemnly nodded her head. She looked to Toshiya with a shine to her eyes, and carefully handed Yuuri out towards him.

Toshiya placed the saucer down to take the sleeping bundle in his arms with care. Yuuri’s nose scrunched upwards at the movement, but he did not waken. _He’s beautiful_ , Toshiya thought, but all he felt within his chest was an ominous dread.

Toshiya approached the Storyteller, the tremble in his step hidden. The Storyteller revealed his tome, a large black book detailed in gold lettering of a language Toshiya had never seen before. Then, from within his cloak, the Storyteller also produced a thin silver needle that gleamed from the light of the candle at Hiroko’s bedside.

With red eyes that stared intensely at Yuuri, the Storyteller gestured with the needle.

“His hand,” he demanded. Toshiya nodded his head, before he gently pried one of Yuuri’s little hands free from the confines of the blanket. The Storyteller drew in close, and with the needle, pricked Yuuri’s index finger.

Yuuri’s lips immediately twisted into a cry of pain. The sound was enough to shatter Toshiya’s heart.

The Storyteller withdrew the needle that carried with it a single drop of Yuuri’s blood. Toshiya took Yuuri’s hand to kiss it, even though there was no puncture wound to kiss. The child continued to cry, till he was red skinned and blotchy in his round face.

“Now, the Story,” the Storyteller announced. Hiroko leaned forward and clutched at the bedsheets. Toshiya retreated to her side, and bounced Yuuri in his arms to calm him as best as he can.

The Storyteller placed the tip of the needle to the yellow page of his open tome. Toshiya braced himself for the sudden darkness to appear, for the sudden flash of golden light as all Stories normally began .

But there was nothing.

They waited, and they waited, but nothing happened. The Storyteller’s expression hinted very little that something was wrong. But, Toshiya did see that the man’s eyes seemed to widen in surprise, before his eyebrows furrowed.

“...My Lord,” Hiroko spoke up, “is...is there something wrong?”

The Storyteller closed the tome with a loud shut that jolted both Hiroko and Toshiya in their spots.

“There is no Story,” he responded.

Toshiya blinked. “W-What? That...that can’t be possible. _Everyone_ has a Story.”

“And this child does not,” the Storyteller said. He approached the bed with small, foreboding steps, his eyes gaze on Yuuri.

Hiroko pulled Toshiya close, and Toshiya isn’t sure if the panicked heartbeat he heard was Hiroko’s or his own.

“Then, what does that mean?” she asks.

“It is simple,” the Storyteller began. He stood only mere inches from Toshiya, and gazed down at the child in his arms. “The child was not meant to exist, therefore he does not have a Story. Fate will rectify this in due time.”

For a brief moment, the only noise was the sound of the rain that beaten against the window.

“Y-You’re not saying that-” Toshiya bit his tongue, and found that he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. Hiroko looked down at Yuuri, then turned to the Storyteller as she pulled her bottom lip in between her teeth.

“No. No, t-there must be something else! Please! Please, don’t say that we’ll lose him when he is all we have left!” she cried.

The Storyteller’s eyebrows raised to his hairline, his expression livid.

“You dare to question my knowledge of my Book?” he asked, and loomed over the two of them with his staggering height. “If a child’s Story does not appear, then the child will not live long enough to have a Story be told. There is no way around fate, and my words will always come to fruition. _Always_.”

Toshiya averted his gaze to Yuuri, but found that just looking at the child made his heart ache even more.

“W-We do not mean to offend you, My Lord," Toshiya stammered, "but...Yuuri...he is-“

“Why does this come as such a shock to you?” The Storyteller pondered aloud, and unfurled the pages of his tome. “Hiroko and Toshiya Katsuki, your Stories are intertwined with nothing but misfortune from the moment of your births,” he said as he gazed upon the pages. “Your first born child - a little girl - was all that was promised to you in your Stories.”

“But Mari was-“ Toshiya’s words died in his throat as his vision darkened. He smelled smoke. He felt flames licking up the sides of his arms and his legs, and a heavy weight on his back while the taste of gravel and dirt began to fill his mouth.

“Ah yes,” the Storyteller murmured as his tome glowed a honey shade. “But she was taken from you. Her and several other young women and children. In that nasty uprising against the Royal Guard.”

Toshiya saw figures outlined in gold and crimson, large hulking men with their faces smudged away of any recognition. In their arms, they were towing away Mari and another little girl, both of them barely five.

He heard his voice even though his lips were curled into a tight grimace of pain. The begging, the screaming, the repeated shouts of Mari’s name as the bandits made off with their captives in the night, never to be seen again.

“Please, no more!” Hiroko begged, and the Storyteller closed his book.

Immediately, their surroundings brightened, and Toshiya felt his entire body trembling, a thin film of sweat on his skin. Yuuri was whimpering in his arms, surely sensitive to the effects of a Story. The Storyteller directed his attention back on Yuuri, his red eyes distant and not the least bit remorseful.

“Three days,” the Storyteller muttered, and brought his pale hand with spindle-like fingers down upon Yuuri’s forehead. The baby cried from his touch and Toshiya lurched away, eyes wide with horror and confusion.

The Storyteller gave him a sneer. "Three days is how long the child will live. That is certain," he says, and turned swiftly on his heels. He begins to walk out the bedroom, the door opening for him all on his own as he approached it.

Toshiya quickly handed Yuuri off to Hiroko, stumbling to his feet.

"My Lord!" he called out, but the Storyteller did not slow in his pace down the stairs.

Toshiya gave chase after him, and rushed past the midwife that still waits outside the bedroom and down the stairs, the front door opening for the Storyteller to exit. "My Lord! Please! There must be _something, anything_ we can do!"

"You cannot change fate. My word is the truth and only outcome," the Storyteller announced, and turned to look over his shoulder at Toshiya. His eyes had a smolder to them, indifferent to Toshiya’s pain. "There is _nothing_ you can do."

With a furl of his cloak and a loud slam of the door, the Storyteller left the cottage. Toshiya tried to chase after him regardless, but when he opened the door, the Storyteller was nowhere in sight.

 

* * *

 

For the following days, a somber mood fell over the inhabitants of the cottage. Even with their begging to the midwife for some sort of help, some sort of sign, the woman was unable to offer the couple any form of solace. For if the Storyteller said the child’s death would occur, there was nothing a mere mortal woman can do to stop it.

On the eve of Yuuri’s third and supposed final night, Hiroko and Toshiya sat at the child’s bedside. They watched as the beautiful rosy hue of their child’s skin slowly drained away to a ghostly white. Unshed tears rested at the corners of the parents’ eyes, while their lips twisted in helpless agony.

At the stroke of eleven, there was a delicate knocking that sounded from below. Toshiya found that he had very little desire to move from Yuuri’s bedside to answer it.

"Maybe they’ll go away," he murmured to his wife, his shoulders dropped in a depressing slump. Hiroko folded her hands over her lap, not able to say a word in response.

A few seconds later, there was another knock, louder and even more incessant.

"Who could be disturbing us at this hour?" Toshiya asked with a sigh, and rose to his feet. Hiroko stood as well, and turned to look down at their child. She was the one that moved to take Yuuri first, and she almost choked out a cry at how cold the child felt in her arms, how each flutter of his eyes grew fewer and farther in between.

They head down the stairs where the person knocked a third time, and Toshiya opened the door just a smidge as to not allow the night’s chill to enter their cottage.

"Please, kind sir," a voice - high pitched and scratchy - responded from the dark, "would you allow me shelter from the cold?"

Toshiya saw as the figure drew closer that it is a haggardly woman, with a thin black shawl draped over her shoulders. Her thin silver hair that covered half of her face looked like a tangled bird’s nest. When the woman attempted to smile, it’s with a crooked mouth, smeared with rouge lipstick from corner to corner.

"O-Oh," Toshiya stammered. He turned to his wife that was gently rocking Yuuri in her arms. Hiroko nodded her head, a smile coming to her face.

Toshiya turned back to the elderly woman. "Y-Yes. Please, come in."

He stepped off to the side and the woman hurried in, pulling her shawl her in close to her body. She turned to Hiroko and gave her thanks. Then, her eyes moved down to the bundle in Hiroko’s arms.

Toshiya barely had the time to blink before suddenly, the woman was directly at Hiroko’s side, with her wrinkly hands reaching out to touch Yuuri.

"What a beautiful baby boy," she cooed aloud. Hiroko jumped in surprise and held Yuuri to her chest, out of the woman’s reach.

The woman cocked her head to the side, an inquisitive look in her golden eyes.

"Is he your first born?" she asked them while she twiddled her fingers.

"No, he’s our...he’s our second child," Toshiya said. An uncomfortable silence moved through the three, a silence that was only interrupted when Yuuri made a tired little coo. The noise Hiroko made was full of fright and heartache.

The elderly woman looked at them with a raise of her eyebrows, before she shuffled towards Toshiya.

“My, my, my. You two look like you haven’t slept a wink!” she enthused. “Has the darling little baby been keeping you awake?”

“N-No,” Toshiya tried to explain, but the woman prevented him from speaking as she rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Come, come. I have something perfect for you two to have. As a way of showing my gratitude for your kindness,” she said with a smile.

“Oh really, it isn’t any trouble, m’am,” Hiroko tried to reassure, but the woman clucked her tongue at her.

The woman reached inside the folds of her black shawl and procured two apples, shiny and a luscious shade of red. Toshiya can almost see his reflection in the skin; his eyes were sunken in with exhaustion while his skin was deathly pale.

“Apples are good for you. You two look like you haven’t eaten a thing in days,” the woman scolded with a motherly tone, and offered the apples forward. Hiroko awkwardly took an apple while she held onto Yuuri. The other apple was thrusted into Toshiya’s hands, firm against his touch.

Toshiya looked at the apple, and he found that his mouth began to water just from looking at the appealing shade of red it was. He resisted the urge to bring it to his lips, and shook his head.

“It is no trouble at all, m’am,” he said, and tried to hand the apple back. “We wouldn’t want to take from you-“

“I insist that you have it,” the woman responded, quick and sharp. She rubbed her hands together in an attempt to warm them before she continued, “Those apples are the most tastiest apples you can find in the entire village. With just one bite, it will make you feel as though you are floating into a paradise. The crisp texture, the sweet juicy taste! It is such a delectable treat and something I want you to have, if not for allowing me shelter, then for the celebration of your newborn child.”

Toshiya stiffened in his spot, and looked down at the apple in his hands.

They aren’t celebrating anything. It would be only one more hour till the stroke of midnight and they lose their child. He could not even think of indulging in something pleasant when that horrible thought sat at the back of his mind.

Hiroko appeared to feel the same way. Her eyes shifted from the red of the apple in her right hand, to the paleness of Yuuri’s face.

Noticing the downcast of their eyes, the elderly woman gave a gentle hum.

“I see, I see. There is something else that ails you more than sleep,” she surmised, and took a step closer towards Hiroko.

Her eyes look over Yuuri’s face, before she nodded her head in understanding. “Then I must tell you something else about these apples,” she whispered. “They aren’t any ordinary one you will find in the market. These, my dears, are Wishing Apples.”

Toshiya made a noise of disbelief. “ _Wishing Apples?_ ” he questioned. “Why, that’s impossible. That kind of thing can only be the work of-"

“A witch?” The woman responded with a lilt in her voice. She cackled and held her arms out wide. “But of course!”

Toshiya paled.

The elderly woman - no, the _witch_ \- waggled her bony finger at him. “Now, now. Do not be afraid. I did not come here to harm you, only for shelter,” she explained, and turned back to Hiroko. “But it seems that you two are in need of help that you cannot achieve on your own.”

Hiroko’s eyes went down to look at Yuuri. His eyes fluttered with sleepiness, few and far in between. She then looked to the apple in her grasp and bit her lower lip.

“...This apple...it can grant any wish?” Hiroko asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Toshiya hurried to Hiroko’s side. “Hiroko-“ he started, but the witch eagerly nodded her head.

“It can grant you any sort of wish, my dear. Anything your heart truly desires, I assure you this apple is capable of bringing,” she responded. Her eyes watched Yuuri closely, and the wrinkles at the corners of her lips pulled as she smiled.

“Hiroko,” Toshiya began again, with hesitance. “Witches are...” He didn’t know what the polite way to say ‘con-artists and false prophets’ while there was a witch in their presence. The people of the village have long been warned to stay away from those that practiced magic. Only the Storyteller’s magic was the true way, and all others were tricks intended to do more harm than good.

The witch tilted her head, slightly bemused.

“You do not believe me?” she asked, not sounding the least bit offended, and cackled again. “It is quite alright! I’m just an elderly beggar woman. What do I know?”

Hiroko clutched at the apple in her hand. “B-But, can these apples grant _any_ wish?” she stammers.

“Yes, my dear,” the witch responded. “Anything your heart desires.”

Hiroko turned to Toshiya, her eyes shining and lip trembling. “Toshiya, maybe-“

“The Storyteller said there was nothing we can do-“

“But these are magic apples!”

“Magic apples from a _witch_.”

Hiroko’s expression was wrought with conflict. “We have spent three days waiting for our child to die, thinking that there is nothing we can do to save him,” she said, voice croaking on the last syllable. “This feeling...it’s _awful_. I never thought I could experience something as hurtful as Mari being taken away. But this...this just feels like absolute _torture_.”

Toshiya understood. They’ve always knew Mari was destined to be taken from them. It was written in her Story, it was just a matter of accepting that there was nothing they could do to change fate.

But with Yuuri, there was hope. Hope that maybe this child could be theirs to keep, an unexpected blessing to make up for all the misfortune they had. Toshiya wanted to reject that fate the Storyteller cursed upon them. He wanted to be _happy_ for once in his miserable life without feeling that it will be all short-lived.

But...was it possible?

Yuuri made another a sickly noise where his voice dissolved into a breathless whimper at the end. The sound made gooseflesh of Toshiya’s skin, and his lips twisted into a grimace.

The apple felt heavy in his hand as he raised it up to look at it’s gleam and rosy red hue.

“...How does it work?” he asked without looking at the witch.

“Just one bite is all that it takes,” she said, and brought her hands to clasp gently around Toshiya’s. Her hands were surprisingly soft and warm, reassuringly sweet. “One bite, and I promise you that your wish will come true.”

Toshiya knew that if this did not work, he would only have himself to blame. He knew that if the Storyteller should ever find that they sought out a witch to reverse the Story in any shape or form, they would surely be punished.

He knew that he loved his son, his precious little boy. He knew that he wanted to protect his child now as much as he wanted to protect Mari back then, and would give just about _anything_ to have the power to reverse fate for them both.

He knew what he wanted to wish for.

Cautiously, he brought the apple to his lips. Hiroko did the same.

As he closed his eyes when the apple lightly pressed against his mouth, Toshiya thought aloud in his head: _I wish for a way to reverse our children’s fates. I wish for them to remain with us._

Hiroko’s wish was nearly identical: _I wish to see Mari again. I wish for Yuuri to live._

They bit into the fruit at the same time, only thirty minutes left till midnight.

The witch watched them chew their pieces of apple and swallow, while she rubbed her hands for warmth.

Toshiya looked to Hiroko, then to Yuuri, then to the witch.

“How do we know it worked?” he asked. The witch gestured for them to move towards the fireplace where it was warm.

“In due time, my dear. Please, come sit,” she said with a weary sigh.

Toshiya felt his feet compelled to move as she asked of him. Hiroko followed close at his heels.

They sat together on a small bench draped and covered with pillows and blankets for comfort. Toshiya wanted to ask another question, but his tongue suddenly felt very heavy in his mouth, and his eyes started to grow tired from looking at the fire.

“Will-“ Hiroko began, but her sentence was interrupted with her yawn. Her head found Toshiya’s shoulder, leaning against him as her eyes began to flutter. “Will...will our baby be okay?”

“Of course, my dear,” the witch whispered ever-so-gently.

“We just...we just want our children back,” Hiroko told her.

When Toshiya tried to look at his wife, he saw that Hiroko’s eyes were beginning to glaze over with sleep. He also saw that his vision began to grow blurry, and everything sounded a bit fainter and farther away than it really was. The crackling hearth of the fire, Hiroko’s voice, even his own heartbeat seemed to beat off-pace and sounded like a distant echo in his ears.

“What’s happening?” he questioned. He tried to stand, but couldn’t find the energy to even move.

“It’s alright, my dear. Everything will be alright. I promise you,” the witch told him, and rested a gentle hand upon his knee.

Toshiya tried to fight the urge to close his eyes, blinking furiously and breathing hard. The world around him grew hazier and blurrier, and the posture of his body went slack against the bench.

Hiroko slumped against his side, fast asleep. Toshiya felt his mind slipping away and out of his control, the taste of apple sweet on his tongue.

Before his vision fully darkened into sleep, he heard a voice ask, “My dear, tell me. What is your precious child’s name?”

The voice didn’t sound like the witch’s, high pitched and scratchy. It sounded ethereal, a honeyed echo of a voice that lightly whispered against the shell of his ear.

“Yuuri,” Toshiya slurred in response, all resistance gone. “Our precious Yuuri.”

And with that, Toshiya and Hiroko Katsuki succumbed to a deep sleep.

The witch drew close to Hiroko, taking the child from her arms with care into her shawl. She looked over his face and smiled, taking her finger to drag along the curve of his cheek.

“Skin as pure as snow,” she murmured, then tapped the child’s lips. “Lips that will shame the red rose.” Her finger tapped at the corners of his closed eyes. “And eyes that will hold the stars and hearts of all who pass. Oh, my precious child, you will be such a thing of beauty.”

Curving her finger alongside Yuuri’s face, she felt the chill of his skin and the slowness of his pulse at his neck. “How lucky I am to have been with you before his curse took its hold,” she whispered, and brought her pointer and middle finger to her red smeared lips.

She touched the pad of her bottom lip against her fingers, then brought them to Yuuri’s forehead and pressed lightly. She hummed a gentle lullaby, barely allowing her voice to be heard while an invisible wind moved through her silvery hair and her black shawl.

Yuuri’s face scrunched up tight in displeasure and pain. His hands drew into tight fists and he wailed, while the witch slowly pulled her fingers away from his forehead.

As her wrist pulled back, something black and thin drew itself free from Yuuri’s head.

A blackened needle.

She took the object that floated dangerously above the child and threw it into the fire, where it burned with an angry and vengeful shriek, and disappeared in a cloud of putrid black smoke.

At once, Yuuri’s eyes fluttered open and his skin returned to that gentle rosy shade. His hands clenched and unclenched around air, and he squirmed in the witch’s arms, cooing that precious little sound.

The witch smiled at him.

“Oh, my precious little child,” she whispered, then glanced at Hiroko and Toshiya fast asleep.

Cradling Yuuri to her chest, she murmured, “How I wish that I can give you what you wanted, especially after you’ve shown your kindness and your deepest love for your children. But I know if I leave him here, alive and well, it will only bring you further heartache if  _he_ finds him.”

She moved toward and lightly tapped at the apples that rested at Hiroko and Toshiya’s sides. They glowed from her touch, brighter and brighter and brighter than the yellow Sun, until with a loud _crack!_ , the apples vanished in a burst of golden light.

In their place were two golden rings, both embedded with a ruby red gem. The witch took the rings and placed them on Hiroko and Toshiya’s hands, just above the couple’s wedding rings.

“These will be helpful for you in due time. I promise,” the witch said, even though the two cannot hear her.

She swaddled Yuuri in a blanket, and then further wrapped him up in her black shawl. Giving one last peek at the warm glow of Yuuri’s eyes, she brought her lips down to his forehead.

“Sleep,” she whispered against his skin, and Yuuri’s eyes obediently fluttered shut.

The witch disappeared under the cover of darkness, with the child safely in her arms, just as the clock struck midnight.

 

* * *

 

At the crack of dawn, Toshiya and Hiroko awaken from their slumber and rub at their eyes.

Toshiya brought a hand to his face, and found his skin to feel soft and warm. His body felt alive with virility, and his stomach felt as though he dined on the heartiest of meals the night before. When he looked to Hiroko, it seemed like she was _glowing_.

“Good morning,” she murmured to her husband, feeling at her face, eyelashes blinking away the sleep.

They sat in silence for only a second, before their bodies registered with alarm.

“Yuuri!” they both cried out, and staggered to their feet to run to the child’s bed upstairs.

To their horror, the bed was empty, cold as if the child was never even there.

They ran back down the stairs and began to turn over the blankets, the pillows, the chairs, and checked every little inch of their cottage, repeatedly calling the child’s name as their voices reached hysterics.

Toshiya brought his hands to his face and gritted his teeth. How stupid! He told himself the only person he would blame for being tricked was himself! He can’t stop the sting of curses through his teeth, nor can he hold back the burn of tears at the corners of his eyes.

“Why?” Toshiya heard Hiroko’s voice croak from behind him. He turned to see her hands tightly clutched at the front of her dress, tears threatening to fall. “She could have taken our silverware. She could have taken my jewelry. W-Why him?” she asks.

Toshiya pulled Hiroko into his arms and squeezed her tight. “We’ll find that witch. We’ll find her and take Yuuri back-“

“But w-what if-“ Hiroko stammered, and she pulled away from Toshiya to look him in the eye. “But what if the apples didn’t work? What then?”

Toshiya blanched. Then, he licked at his lips. He could still taste the sweetness of the apple, long past the time he bit into the fruit.

“Then...then we’ll take him back...and give him the proper burial he deserves,” Toshiya said, and he hated the way the words sounded in his voice. He hated it even more to picture Yuuri with all the color drained from his face, never to make that gentle cooing noise or blink those big brown eyes up at them again.

Hiroko swallowed her sob, then nodded her head.

Toshiya moved to grab his cloak and boots. “Come. If we can hurry, we can make it to the village and see if anyone has spotted her”.

Before Hiroko can nod and grab her own pair of shoes and her cloak, there was a knock at the door. Three loud, foreboding knocks.

Both of them froze in their spots, staring at the door with alarm.

“Hello?” A voice from outside called. “Is anyone home?”

“Get your things,” Toshiya told Hiroko, and fastened the clasp of his cloak. Hiroko gave a wary glance at the door, before she hurried upstairs.

Toshiya moved to the door and opened it, finding a stout, portly man dressed all in black. Behind the man stood the Storyteller, his expression passive and red eyes gleaming in the morning sunlight.

The portly man removed his black hat, revealing a bald spot as he gave a respectful bow.

“I would first like to say that I am sorry for your loss,” he told Toshiya’s feet, before he stood upright and placed his hat back on. “I am the village’s undertaker. We heard - er - “ the man gave a wary glance over his shoulder at the Storyteller before he continued, “I was under the impression that...that your newborn infant has recently passed.”

Toshiya felt his heart race at the thought, first with the pain of thinking about Yuuri being dead, then of anger at the insensitivity of this visit.

“He isn’t here,” Toshiya spat before he can think on his words.

The Storyteller’s eyes sharpened. “Where is he then?” he asked in a low tone.

Toshiya felt it on the tip of his tongue. He felt his nostrils flare and his hands draw into tight fists. He felt it in his gut the urge to yell and scream at the top of his lungs: _He’s gone! He’s gone! He was stolen from us because we so desperately wanted to believe that somehow we can keep him alive! He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone!_

In his silent fury, Toshiya did not realize that Hiroko had came down the stairs and appeared at his side, bundled up in her cloak and hat. She made a startled yelp upon seeing the Storyteller, and the Storyteller approached the couple standing in the doorway.

“Where is the child?” he asked again. Hiroko immediately averted her eyes.

“He...w-we don’t know, My Lord.”

“You don’t _know_?”

“T-There was...we allowed a beggar woman to stay with us the night before. To have shelter from the cold,” Hiroko explained.

The Storyteller’s eyes widened in surprise, before they narrowed in anger. “A beggar woman? What _kind_ of beggar woman?” he asked. He bent down so his narrow face was at eye-level to Hiroko, appearing like an adult scolding their child. “Have you been consulting with a _witch?_ ”

“No!” Both Toshiya and Hiroko denied.

“Then what does this _beggar woman_ have to do with the child?”

“She...she took him, My Lord,” Toshiya finally mustered up to say. His body trembled as he spoke through gritted teeth. “We...we fell asleep, and she snuck off with our child during the night. W-We don’t know why-“

“Your negligence does not surprise me in the slightest,” the Storyteller said, and stood at full height. “Further proof that the child never should have been born to you in the first place.”

Toshiya took a step forward, hands drawn in tight fists. Hiroko quickly placed a hand on his shoulders to hold him back.

The Storyteller turned on his heel. “Well, the beggar woman made off with a dead child. I suppose then, there is no need for a burial, Undertaker.”

The Undertaker looked around awkwardly, fidgeting uncomfortably in his spot in front of the doorway. “B-But Sir,” he stammered, “shouldn’t we...shouldn’t we _confirm_ that the child is...um...”

“Did I not _say_ that the child is dead?” the Storyteller hissed

“Y-Yes, you did, Sir.”

“And the parents are well aware that my word is correct, are they not?” the Storyteller asked, and turned to look at Toshiya and Hiroko.

Toshiya averted his eyes to the ground. He could still taste the apple in his mouth. He could still hear the sound of the voice echoing gently in his ear.

_My dear, tell me. What is your precious child’s name?_

“Well?” the Storyteller’s asked in an aggravated tone. Toshiya bit his tongue.

“...Yes,” he answered.

“The child is dead and there is no point to go search for his remains,” the Storyteller declared. Hiroko hung her head, her shoulders shaking.

“...Yes, My Lord,” she said.

The Storyteller looked at them, silent for a moment. Then, he turned to fully face them and bent down low so his face was at Toshiya’s level.

“If you believe so, then say it,” the man growls. “Unless, you have reason to believe otherwise.”

_My dear, tell me. What is your precious child’s name?_

“...Yuuri...Yuuri is dead, and t-there’s no p-point to look for his-“ Toshiya can’t bring himself to finish the sentence. He choked on the Winter air, and Hiroko’s hands flew to her mouth to hold back the cry.

The Storyteller stood upright again, and turned to walk away. “I am sorry for inconveniencing you, Undertaker. Your job is done,” he spoke aloud.

“W-Wait, m-my Lord!” The Undertaker called after. But when he turned to look, the Storyteller had already vanished in thin air.

The Undertaker turned to the couple and removed his hat, his face looking solemn.

“I...I am _truly_ sorry. This...this would have been the fourth child this year I would have buried...b-but!” His voice placed on a faux happiness. “Maybe this is for the best! No parent wants to see their child...”

“Please, just leave us,” Hiroko begged, exhaustion renewed in her voice.

The Undertaker’s face fell, and he placed his hat back on.

“I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry,” he said, and the couple returned back inside the cottage, closing the door shut behind them.

If this fairy tale were to end here, it would not be deserving of the phrase: ‘and they all lived happily ever after’. Then again, for Toshiya and Hiroko Katsuki, happily ever after was never promised in the first place.

Unbeknownst to the heartbroken couple in the cottage at the edge of the forest, there was a tower that rest upon the cliff that overlooked the village, hidden among the tall tall trees and surrounded by a thicket of thorns.

It was there that a witch sung a gentle little lullaby as she prepared a bottle of milk for a newborn baby boy.

It was there that this fairy tale continued on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is just a little pet project, something for me to work on in conjunction with band AU (which will be updating sometime this week since I think I managed how to do all this on my iPad!!!). if people are interested in it then, um ha, I’d be happy cause this is purely indulgent stuff that probably no one would be interested in but idk!!
> 
> Anyways, thank you for being patient with me and I hope to update with my other stories soon!


	2. Someday My Prince Will Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the overwhelming response!

“Tell me, Stable Boy,” begins the Hero, “has the hag made her presence known in the village square?”

Leo de la Iglesia is surprised.

The Story of a Stable Boy is wrought with disinteresting highs and spectacular lows. As such, for days on end, Leo de la Iglesia is expected to only listen, and never to speak.

 _You will take pride in shining the Hero’s boots while listening to them recant their Story_ , the Storyteller spoke seventeen years ago at the cusp of Leo’s birth. _You will take pleasure in caring for the Royal Guard’s horses while they eat and drink and be merry. Your desire is to serve, never to be seen or heard, but forever present to those in need._

And so Leo has. Even after his brothers and sisters left the village to fulfill their Stories of slaying dragons, and after his parents grew too meager and old to tend to the horses of Heroes and Guards that drift through their village, Leo has remained.

Never to escape the monotony of a life that his Story has trapped him in.

But now, on a Spring day where the scent of flowers smells its sweetest in the breeze, a Hero is striking up _conversation_ with him. Leo’s lips, partially dry and cracked, stutter out a response of, “N-No, Sir. She hasn’t.”

At Leo’s answer, the Hero rubs at his square jaw and frowns.

“Hmm, what a pity,” he says, and lounges against the wooden post.

He waits only a few seconds more to continue speaking, just as Leo continues to brush the tangles of the Hero’s steed’s mane. “Tell me, Stable Boy,” he says, his voice taking on a wistful tone with the smooth registrar of his voice, “who do you believe is the most beautiful person in town?”

Leo pauses to think.

He’s seen many people while working in the stables; he’s heard many Stories of all the beautiful people in the world that he’s never met. He thinks and he thinks and he thinks, till the furrow of his eyebrows draws in too tight.

“I’m not sure, Sir,” Leo finally answers. The Hero laughs.

“I have visited this town many times on my journeys, Stable Boy,” the Hero says. “And each time that I do, I am blessed to see such an alluring person that makes me yearn to stay in this village and seek their hand.”

Turning his face to Leo, with a glint in his chivalrous brown eyes, the Hero adds, “And that beautiful creature is always accompanied by that hag woman, so surely she must know of their name.”

Leo knows vaguely of the beggar woman that routinely visits the village square. She speaks to no one, sticks to the shadows of the alleys, and disappears as fast as she appears. Not once did Leo recall a person that accompanied her, especially one that is as beautiful as the Hero claims.

But, Leo is only a Stable Boy. And it is not in his Story to be inquisitive and prod into the matters of others.

Nodding his head and returning to his work, Leo says, “I wish you the best of luck in finding them, Sir.”

The Hero laughs, and his voice is filled with pride. “I do not need _luck_ when I have the Storyteller’s prophetic words that state what can only be _destiny_ for us.”

Leo thinks about his own destiny, and doesn’t respond.

As the sun swelters in the blue sky above, the Hero only leaves from his spot at the wooden posts when he sees a shadow nervously shuffling through the empty village square. Finding that it is time to put the Storyteller’s words into action, the Hero gives chase.

He stops the shadowy figure just before they are able to disappear in the alleyway between the tavern and the apothecary‘s shop, finding the figure to be the exact beggar woman he is looking for. To his brief dismay, the beggar woman’s beautiful company is not present.

“Hello there, kind woman,” he greets regardless, giving a dazzling white smile and an elegant bow.

The beggar woman’s wrinkled hands hold tight to her wicker basket filled with goods, her eyes barely visible under the veil of her black shawl.

“Good afternoon,” she responds, voice scratchy and low-pitched.

“May I escort you home?” the Hero asks, offering his bicep forward. “It is quite dangerous for such an elderly woman as yourself to be wandering through these alleys alone. Bandits can be lurking in the shadows.”

“Is that so?” she murmurs aloud, taking in the Hero’s figure, letting her eyes linger on the shape of his face. She smiles at him, lips crooked and smeared with lipstick. “Thank you, but I do not need assistance from strangers.”

The beggar woman attempts to step around him, but the Hero blocks her path.

He laughs again, softer and through clenched teeth. “My dear lady, I insist,” he says. “It would be disheartening to find that something happened to you that I could have prevented! Please, allow me to escort you home.”

“I do not want your help. Please, move,” the beggar woman responds, but the Hero does not budge.

“I see,” he says, and he steps even closer to her, his figure large and intimidating. “You must have not heard of me. Be not afraid, dear woman. I am the Hero-“

“Gerhardt,” the beggar woman responds flatly. The Hero momentarily falters.

“E-Er, yes. So...so you _have_ heard of me!” He smiles, squaring his shoulders back all proud and confident. “Then you surely must know that I-“

“I do not know of what stories people say of your name,” the beggar woman interrupts, and her gaze is intense as she stares into his eyes. “I only know of you from what I can see for myself.”

She takes a step towards him. For some reason, the Hero takes a step back.

“You are a man that has been promised nothing short of the world. You ride into battles with your head held high and your sword drawn to slaughter all that oppose you. You are showered with gifts and wealth and pleasurable company from all that become enamored with your Story. Everyone _loves_ you.”

She takes another step towards him, and he responds by taking another step back, his lower lip trembling and eyes wide with confusion.

“But,” the beggar woman continues, “you were never born with a golden heart, and all of this has molded you into becoming nothing but a selfish and greedy brute, who acts like a petulant child if you are not rewarded what you believe you should be promised in your Story.”

Then, the woman narrows her eyes and her lips curl in displeasure. “And I suppose,” she surmises, “if I were to let you ‘escort me’ home as badly as you would like to, you would save me from the three men you have lying in wait to ambush me. And I would be forced to oblige your request to meeting my son.”

The Hero Gerhardt’s face turns a ghostly shade of white. The beggar woman hums, blinking her eyes.

“Have I hit the nail on the head?” she asks.

“W-What did you-“ Gerhardt bites the inside of his cheek, and he forces on a smile. “My...my _dear_ lady, you are completely mistaken! If you were to have audience with the Storyteller, you would see that I am completely genuine! I only wish to be of help and escort you home so you are reunited with your son.”

“Please stop this nonsense,” the beggar woman mutters and tries to step around Gerhardt, but he blocks her path.

“Allow me to escort you home,” he says again, but it isn’t with a smile this time.

“Tell me what you want with my son and I will consider it,” she spits in return.

Gerhardt pauses, then he inhales deeply through his nose, turning his face towards the yellow sun. _If this old bitch is to be my mother-in-law_ , Gerhardt thinks, _then I mustn’t give her any reason to keep her son away from me._

So, he gets down on one knee, his head respectfully bowed. “My dearest lady,” he says, “I have traveled far and wide to many different places, and have seen many different people. However, none of them can even hold a candle to the alluring essence of your son. I have never felt this intense yearning from anyone else, and I have reason to believe that this can only be explained by him being the promised love of my life per the Storyteller’s words. Please, I beg of you to allow me to see my beloved, and allow our Stories to intertwine into one.”

The beggar woman stares at the man kneeled before her, a gentle wind moving through her black shawl and her silvery strands of hair.

“My dearest child is now a young man of eighteen, and I know that it is only a matter of time before he leaves me,” the beggar woman confesses. Gerhardt’s smile is discreet. _Finally, she’s starting to think._

“However,” she murmurs, “I would rather pluck out his eyes, cut out his tongue, and desert him in the deepest, darkest thicket of the woods where there isn’t even a sliver of light, if only to protect him from the misery of having to wake up every day as _your_ beloved.”

Gerhardt’s face grows hot with rage.

“How dare you speak to me like this, you _vile_ -“ He rises to spit in the woman’s face, or maybe even to grab her by her thin neck and demand that unless she wanted to take another breath, she present her son to him now.

But when Gerhardt stands upright, the beggar woman is gone, vanished completely into thin air.

 

* * *

 

As this takes place, meanwhile, in a secluded tower surrounded by a glen of tall trees, a young man of eighteen faces a small conundrum:

Yuuri has fallen deeply in love with a man he has never met.

He sits perched upon his wooden stool, pondering how such a thing can be. In front of him, a painting of a man sits propped by the windowsill to dry.

Yuuri has never seen the man in the painting before. At least, not in reality. He’s seen the man in his dreams - many many times - to the point that even the smallest little detail Yuuri can remember when he wakes up, he is able to recreate on a canvas or in his drawing book.

The man’s eyes are Yuuri’s favorite thing about him. They’re such a beautiful shade of blue that Yuuri can’t even find the words to describe. They are not like the blue of the sky on a Summer’s day, nor are they like the blue of the ocean when it is calm. It is such a pure shade of blue that leaves Yuuri breathless every time he gazes upon the images of the Painted Man, and leaves him wondering if such a blue - or even such a _person_ \- exists in real life.

In his distraction, he fails to notice the appearance of suddenly shuffling feet. When a cold hand rests lightly upon his shoulder, he jumps in his spot.

The cold hand retreats underneath the figure’s black shawl. "I did not mean to startle you, my dearest."

Yuuri gives a smile. "I’m sorry, Mother. It’s alright."

The elderly woman smiles kindly at him, before her gaze moves to the painting.

"Ooh," she says, and she approaches the painting with timid steps. “This is a new one.”

Looking over her shoulder, the elderly woman speaks, “Tell me, what is the story of this one?”

Yuuri has created art since he was a child of seven. His dreams of the Painted Man and creation of art in the man’s image began when Yuuri was only ten. He sees an array of words and images that float through his subconscious when he gazes upon his art, weaving themselves intricately to form a narrative that he lightly treads through in hopes of discovering the end. But, Yuuri has never been able to articulate just what these visions mean, or why they seem to occur in the first place.

The young man bites at his lower lip, averting his eyes. “It isn’t important,” Yuuri answers. “It’s just a painting.”

The elder woman sighs fondly. “Yes, but it is such a beautiful painting. It looks like you put a lot of thought into it. I was merely curious if there were something more.”

She hands him a small wicker basket she removes from the confines of her shawl. “Put these away, my dearest. I am feeling rather tired.”

Yuuri takes it, though with a frown. “You could have asked me to do your shopping for you,” he scolds her.

The woman shakes her head, and she wanders out of Yuuri’s art room to the kitchen area, taking a seat in her rocking chair. Yuuri follows her, placing the wicker basket on the table covered with vials, beet root, and archaic tomes.

“Yes, but I had...a feeling that you should not be present in the town square today,” she says, folding her hands on her lap. “But it is nothing to be concerned about, my dearest.”

Yuuri feels he would like to protest that, but he holds his tongue. She wouldn’t explain to him just what that ‘feeling’ is. She never does.

As Yuuri unpacks her things, placing the sprigs of camomile in her herb cupboard and the jar of newts - “I found them in an alley, not making themselves useful,” the woman piped with a smile when asked - on the counter, he thinks of the Painted Man.

Who is he?

Why does Yuuri feel this way about him?

How can Yuuri recreate his image over and over and over again without knowing the first thing about him? He doesn’t even know the man’s _name_. It doesn’t make any sense, not at all.

“My dearest?” Yuuri hears the woman call, and he excuses himself from his thoughts.

“Yes, Mother?”

She waves him over with her hand. “Come, I have a present for you,” she says.

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “It’s Spring, Mother. My birthday was last year.”

“And it will be Fall and Winter once more if you do not come here.”

Yuuri does as he is asked, taking a seat beside the woman while she reaches into the folds of her black shawl.

After a moment’s pause, she withdraws a small velvet case, golden emblems along the lid. She hands it to Yuuri. “Open it,” she says, an eager smile on her wrinkled lips, and he does.

Inside the case is a ring of sparkling gold, with a red ruby gem embedded that catches the glints of the sun’s rays. As Yuuri pulls the ring free, he finds that it is attached to a long golden chain.

“What is this?” he asks, a blithe smile to cover the tremble of his voice. “This looks expensive. How did you-“

“I’ve had it for a long time, my dearest. I have waited for the right day, the right moment, to give this to you.” Her hands go up to hold Yuuri’s, enveloping the ring in their shared grasp. “This ring is a gift of love. It will lead you to those that love you dearly. Never lose sight of it.”

Yuuri blinks, still bewildered. “Um...am I going somewhere?”

The woman watches his face, quiet and stilling her breath, then she squeezes his hands.

“Come, come,” she says, rising to her feet. “I shall go and fetch us supper. I meant to pick up some eggs from the farmer, but it seems that I have forgotten.”

Yuuri rises, hastily placing the chain around his neck and tucking the ring beneath his grey tunic.

“Then I’ll come with you-“

“Oh no, no, no. My dearest, please, remain here and start the fire for dinner,” she tells him. The woman makes her way to the spiraling stairs that lead down to the tower’s bottom. Yuuri quickly follows at her heels, nearly stumbling over his own two feet to keep with her pace.

“But by the time you return, it will be nightfall,” Yuuri says. He hates for his Mother to worry and dote over him, but he can’t help but feel worried about her taking the long journey from their tower to the village on her own. “There’s bandits and thugs and...and poison ivy and quicksand-“

“I will be _fine_ , my dearest, and I _must_ go,” she says.

“But _why?_ For only eggs? Can’t it wait till tomorrow?”

She pauses at a red wooden door, hidden from the outside and can be only opened with her tracing an insignia against the door’s brass knob. The woman turns to Yuuri, and there’s something there in her eyes that he can’t explain. Something...resigned and elusive, a shimmer of unforeseen possibilities that Yuuri will never understand.

She smiles, and brings her hands up to cup his face. “My dearest Yuuri, you are so beautiful,” the woman tells him, and she does well to hide the way her voice trembles as she says his name. “Nothing has brought me more happiness than to have you as my dearest child, and I know that you will be a blessing to others as you are to me.”

Yuuri doesn’t understand. He brings a hand to the woman’s, pulling it away from his cheek. “Mother-“

“Go back upstairs, my dearest,” she tells him, and leans up to give him a small kiss to his cheek. Yuuri steps away from her, confusion still a clout on his mind, but does as she asks of him. He makes his way up only three steps, before he turns to look over his shoulder and call out for the woman to stay regardless.

However, the words die in his throat when he sees that the woman has disappeared.

Yuuri lingers on the staircase before he continues to ascend, the warmth of the woman’s kiss on his cheek and the chill of the gold ring against his nervously beating heart.

 

* * *

 

As night crept its way through the skies and fell over the small houses and taverns of the village, Leo waits outside of the stables with the Hero’s horse, lightly stroking its mane. No one has yet to light the lanterns, so it becomes rather difficult for Leo to see in the dark. Reaching into the pocket of his trousers, he finds a match and strikes it.

And there, in the dark by the wooden posts, he spots a figure in black watching him.

The figure cackles loudly and Leo jumps, momentarily startled and dropping the match in the mud.

“You look bored here,” the figure - a woman? No, with that laugh it surely must be a witch - infers.

Leo’s smile is wry. “I have to be here. It’s my purpose.”

The witch hums low to herself. “No, you are meant for so much more, my child. You just haven’t met the right person yet.”

Leo knows better than to listen to a witch’s ramblings. Yet, something in his heart stirs at the thought of his life meaning _more_ than the meager existence it is now.

She holds something out to Leo, and though it is difficult for Leo to see while squinting in the dark, he can’t mistake the familiar glint of a gold coin.

“Buy yourself a drink,” she says, and Leo takes the offering.

“Uh, thanks.” He inspects the coin, rubbing his thumb around the edge. It feels real to the touch, and the weight of it in between his fingers feels right as well. The luster of the gold sparkles prettily in the moonlight. This will surely fetch him something nice to indulge in at the tavern _if_ it is the real thing.

When he raises his head to look, the witch is already gone from leaning against the wooden post. After a moment’s pause to realize that his throat feels unbearably scratchy and dry, Leo ties up the Hero’s horse, gives a friendly rub of their back, and makes his way towards the tavern for an ale.

The tavern is bustling with villagers and visitors, Heroes and Dancers and Royal Guardsmen alike. The air smells of sweat and perfume and beer; not one to normally occupy these types of spaces, Leo nearly chokes on the scent.

It is difficult for Leo to make his way through the crowd of people, bodies bumping and mashing up against each other as they drank and danced and cavorted around the small wooden interior. Clutching tightly to the gold coin, he grits his teeth and pushes forward.

He is two feet away from the bar, barely visible from behind the crowd of knights that toast a cheer to slaying the dragon in a neighboring country, when a hand clamps tightly onto his shoulder. Leo pulls away from the hand, fists drawn tight as he turns to see who the person is.

The Hero Gerhardt smiles at him, two beers in his hand. “Stable Boy,” he greets, “what are you doing in here?”

Leo relaxes, but he still feels a sense of nerves buzzing at the base of his spine. “I’m here to buy a drink, Sir,” Leo explains.

Gerhardt nods his head, clapping his hand on Leo’s shoulder again. “Come sit with me, Stable Boy. I believe I have a request that you may find interesting,” he tells Leo, and begins to guide him away from the clamor of the tavern’s downstairs area to upstairs. There are smaller rooms on the second floor, each one closed and locked save for the third room on the right that Gerhardt takes Leo to.

He opens it and all but shoves Leo inside, closing the door behind him.

The room is dark, with the only source of light coming from a candle resting in the center of a table in the middle of the room. There are three chairs around the table; only two are vacant. The third chair scrapes backwards against the wooden floor as its occupant rises to their feet.

Leo swallows, frozen in place from seeing the figure’s face aglow from the candle.

Otabek Altin.

Gerhardt guides Leo to a chair when it is clear the other is too struck with fear to even move his legs, taking a seat as well while Otabek remains standing.

“I thought this was between you and me,” Otabek says. Leo realizes this is the first time he’s ever heard the other man speak, and finds the quiet deep registrar of his voice to be just as intimidating as his face.

“He’s harmless,” Gerhardt says with a wave of his hand. “Besides, wouldn’t it do you good to have someone?”

Otabek glares at Leo, and Leo squirms in his seat, the gold coin still tucked against his now sweaty palm.

“Sir, I don’t belong here,” Leo tries to speak, but Gerhardt hushes him.

“Do not be so squeamish, Stable Boy. We are among friends, aren’t we?" he asks, pushing one of the beers forward. "Here. You said you’d like a drink?"

Leo’s mother will surely throw a fit if he returns to the stables smelling of alcohol. He remains unmoving in his chair.

Gerhardt’s hand claps down on the space between Leo’s shoulders, feeling like a heavy weight on Leo’s back. “I ask of you, please lend me your ears. For what I am to say will change your life.”

Leo knows this is not his place, sitting in the dark with a Hero and a man with such a dark Story as Otabek Altin. He thinks on the words of his Story: never to be seen or heard, but be ever present to those in need.

He knows of the Storyteller’s words sometimes taking different effects than what is to be believed, though _always_ coming true. Perhaps this still falls in line with Leo’s own Story, still part of his purpose.

Gerhardt leans forward. “It has come to my attention that there is something _vile_ here that lurks in our midsts: a nasty and unforgiving witch.”

Leo thinks of the woman at the stables, his mouth going dry.

“This witch currently stands in between me uniting with the one that is my one true love, keeping them locked captive somewhere near this village. I do not wish for my beloved to suffer another moment kept as a prisoner of that wicked monster, and as such, I have decided to rescue them.”

Otabek remains quiet, so Leo - in spite of the muddle of thoughts clouding his mind hissing for him to remember his place - asks, “But what does this have to do with us, Sir?”

Gerhardt smiles. “Simple, Stable Boy. What I ask of you and Altin is to keep the witch...distracted, while I rescue my beloved.”

Leo sees Otabek stiffen in his chair, though he can’t understand why.

“How would we distract a witch, Sir?” Leo continues to ask. Gerhardt looks to Otabek.

“I’m sure Altin can think of some ways,” he says, and leaves that conversation at rest. Folding his hands upon the table, he looks between the two. “If you are able to fulfill this request for me, then I shall reward you with favoritism from the Storyteller. You will be considered Heroes in his eyes as well as others, deserving of Stories that speak of wealth and glory showered upon you for reuniting two lost souls in love.”

Leo’s eyes widen at the prospect, and the hand that holds the gold coin squeezes it tight.

_You are meant for so much more, my child. You just haven’t met the right person yet._

Is this what she meant? Is it true that there _can_ be more purpose to his life than what the Storyteller initially read? His heart quickens in his chest, a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his neck. Leo wants to become something more. He wants to become something _great_.

Gerhardt offers his gloved hand forward. “Do we have a deal, gentlemen?” he asks.

Otabek stares at Gerhardt’s hand for the longest time, his arms crossed over his broad chest. But eventually, he leans forward and shakes the Hero’s hand, Leo doing the same moments later.

“Let us hurry, gentlemen,” Gerhardt says, rising to his feet. “The sooner we can free my beloved from the clutches of that witch, the better.”

Leo rises to his feet as well, nodding his head. After a while, Otabek rises too, an expression on his face more stoic than usual.

The three exit the tavern, unnoticed by the crowd of drunkards mingling on the lower level, and Gerhardt goes to fetch his horse. Mounting the steed, he grabs a hold of the reins and gives it a snap.

“I’ve heard that the witch was spotted recently going up to the forest path. If you can cut her off there, I might be able to reach my beloved before she does. Be quick, gentlemen, and you shall be handsomely rewarded for your deed!”

Leo’s grip of the gold coin grows tighter as he nods. _Yes, finally!_ This is what he has wanted for his entire life! Excitement! Danger! A chance to finally _be_ somebody!

Gerhardt rides off in the darkness, and Leo turns to Otabek, growing suddenly wary when Otabek’s eyes coldly look over him.

“...Follow me,” he murmurs, and begins to walk the opposite direction that Gerhardt rode off. Leo hesitates, but his legs find the desire to move and follow, pocketing the gold coin that is now heavy with possibilities.

Otabek walks and Leo follows, both slipping through the shadows of night up a marshy forest path out of the village and to the cliffs. It is a normally cluttered trail of rocks and logs and poison ivy bushels. Travelers coming through this path are often exhausted when they make their way out, or rather, _if_ they make their way out.

The two walk without speaking a word, the squelching sound of their footsteps through the muddy path being the only noise that keeps them company. Tension begins to rise in Leo’s shoulders, something like an uncomfortable nagging itch right at the tip of his spine. He twiddles his thumbs, trying to think of something to discuss.

“Um,” Leo pipes up as they reach a bend in the path. Otabek gives no inclination that he heard Leo, but Leo continues anyways. “The witch. How do you suppose we distract her? Should we set up a trap somewhere?”

Otabek stops walking. He turns to look over his shoulder at Leo, expression blank.

“Do you really believe he means for us to ‘distract her’?” Otabek asks.

Leo blinks. “Um...yes?”

Otabek turns back to face the path. “Go back to the village,” he says. “I wouldn’t want you implemented in this.”

He starts walking again, but Leo follows him close at his heels.

“Hold on, what are you talking about?” he questions, sidestepping around a fallen tree to keep up with Otabek as they move through a cluster of bushes. “You make it sound as though...”

Leo pauses, thinking.

Otabek stops too, waiting for Leo’s response.

In the coldness of the night, the hair on Leo’s neck suddenly stands on end, and his eyes widen in shock.

“N-No, that can’t be,” he says, shuddering out a forced laugh. “He wouldn’t ask us to _kill_ her. He’s...he’s a Hero. Heroes...Heroes wouldn’t do such a thing.”

“How are you so sure?” Otabek asks, eyebrows pulling down as he frowns. “Because of their Story?”

Leo nods, finding it hard to move with the sudden chill over his skin.

Otabek crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m sure you know about my Story too. Everyone in this village does,” he says with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. Unsure whether he should answer, Leo decides to do nothing at all.

“It doesn’t make sense for a Hero to ask for my assistance, does it?” Otabek hypothetically asks. “Unless, that Hero intends to utilize me for what the Storyteller said is my ‘purpose’.”

More silence.

Otabek continues to walk, and Leo follows still, albeit with a slower pace.

The moon is full in the sky above, casting everything in a ghostly white light. It’s freezing; Leo’s teeth chatter and his body quakes with each and every step.

As they reach a fork in the path and Otabek goes left, Leo speaks, “She must be evil though.”

Otabek stops again, listening.

Leo licks at his dry lips. ”She must be evil, keeping the Hero’s true love locked away. It...it only makes sense that she must be stopped and us killing her would put an end to it,” he says. He hears the tremble of his voice, the shakiness of his breathing as he tries to rationalize the situation.

He knows of Otabek Altin and the dark Story attached to the man, but why does Leo need to be included? What purpose does he have for the Hero asking him to join? He’s not a killer. He’s not even a fighter. Leo closes his eyes tightly to think of the woman’s words, and the gold coin feels like a stone in his pocket.

He shouldn’t be here. He’s just a Stable Boy and that’s all he’ll ever be and _he shouldn’t be here._

“If she were evil, then why doesn’t he kill her himself?” Otabek asks aloud. “He’s a Hero. It would be perfectly fine if he were to slay an evil witch; they do it all the time. Why have someone else do the dirty work?”

Leo doesn’t know. He doesn’t know, he _doesn’t know._

Otabek stands in silence, watching the unsure rise and fall of Leo’s shoulders as he breathes. Then, Otabek tenses, his shoulders hunching upwards.

“Someone’s coming,” he mutters, and Leo freezes in his spot.

He turns to look over his shoulder, but Otabek grabs at his forearm and yanks him behind a nearby tree. With his back up against Otabek’s front, Leo feels the heat of the man behind him, and the grip of a dagger pressed against his hip.

In the dark, Leo sees a figure in black quietly meandering towards them, a wicker basket hanging off their thin wrist. It looks like an old woman, and with sudden horror, Leo realizes it is the same old woman that gave him the gold coin that sits in his pocket.

He’s able to catch glimpses of her face in the moonlight, and it almost looks like she is glowing. Her black shawl is wrapped around her shoulders, and an invisible breeze moves through her long, silvery hair.

Otabek covers Leo’s mouth with a gloved hand, unsheathing his dagger with the other.

“Stay quiet,” he whispers, maneuvering them both so he is closer to the path, and would only have to wait for the right moment to strike as the witch passes them by.

Leo’s heart is racing. It’s beating too loudly, and the taste of Otabek’s glove against his mouth makes him feel like he needs to vomit. He’s sweating, his knees are knocking together, and his head throbs with panic as the same thought gets repeated over and over and over again: He’s not supposed to be here. He’s not supposed to be here. _He’s not supposed to be here!_

The witch stops walking, tilting her face towards the moonlight.

“...My child,” she speaks, voice a gentle whisper, “is that your heartbeat I hear?”

Otabek doesn’t move. Leo’s heart only races faster.

“Please,” she says, “come forward. I know for what reason you all are here.”

After a pause, Otabek drops his hand from Leo’s mouth and takes his forearm.

He leads them both out into the opening, stone faced as the witch appraises him with his eyes, then Leo.

She does nothing but stare at them, before she closes her eyes and nods. “I see. So that is how it will end,” she whispers to herself. Clutching tight to her wicker basket, she smiles to Otabek and Leo. “So, will you kill me then? A harmless old woman merely trying to return to her child back home?” she asks.

Leo coughs out a gag, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “M-M’am! W-We - I - you -”

“If you will answer what I have to ask you, then maybe not,” Otabek says, his hand resting on the sheath of his dagger.

The witch cackles. “Such a bold man! Handsome as well,” she compliments, and draws closer with her eyes big and wide. “Tell me, what would you like to ask?”

After a pause, Otabek glances out of the corner of his eye at Leo, then to the witch.

“There is a Hero that claims you are keeping his one true love captive, and that you are an evil witch that must be killed. He has promised us favor with the Storyteller if we are the ones to slay you.” Otabek looks the witch in the eye, his left hand drawn into a tight fist. “My question...is if what he says is true.”

The witch hums. “...What does your heart say, my love?”

Otabek closes his eyes, lips twisting into a discouraging frown.

The witch looks to Leo. “And you, my child? Does your heart believe this is where you should be?”

Leo vehemently shakes his head no, his shoulders shaking. “My...my heart says that I shouldn’t be here, but...but I don’t understand why I was brought here in the first place unless to help the Hero in his quest.”

“Then I shall remedy your confusion with the truth. And after you hear my story, if you still choose to slay me where I stand, then so be it,” the witch says. She pulls back her shawl to expose the fullness of her wrinkled face, and it looks like entire cosmos shines in her eyes.

“The Hero speaks the truth when he says that I am a witch and my child is not my own. I stole him when he was merely a babe, from a couple in a little cottage by the woods that to this day stew in each other’s sorrow at his disappearance. He spends his time locked away in a tower hidden by trees, dreaming of a man that is his one true love,” the witch explains with the deepest sincerity, before she shakes her head. “However, my dearest child’s true love is not the Hero that put you up to this scheme.”

She looks to Otabek, reaching out to take the hand that rests upon the sheath of his dagger. “My love, you know in your heart that this is a farce. The Hero that promises you redemption and praise, escape from your life where you are outcasted and treated like crook, can only be promised if you kill me now. And when my dearest child finds out that I am gone, the one that will be punished is not the Hero that conspired to kill me or you who fulfilled the deed.”

Turning to Leo with sadness in her eyes, she whispers, “It would be you, my child.”

For a moment, Leo forgets how to breathe.

He stammers. “W-What?”

Otabek hangs his head, breathing in deeply through his nose. “...She’s right,” he answers.

Leo’s head turns wildly from the witch to Otabek. “B-But I didn’t - I - then why did he -“

“He just wanted to give me more reason to do it,” Otabek mutters under his breath. “Everyone would immediately suspect me if her death came out. But if he vouches that I didn’t kill her, _someone_ has to take the fall. And you...you just walked in, and he made you accompany me so no one can say you were at the stables...you were the scapegoat. You were never going to be anything more than that.”

Leo has no words. He’s trembling and his mouth hangs open in shock, confusion, or rather a mixture of both.

“But...but he’s a Hero...” he says, his voice small. His hands draw into tight fists. “He’s a Hero! Heroes don’t do things like this! The Storyteller...the Storyteller is never wrong!”

The witch gives a solemn nod. “No one is as they seem, my child. But, I do not wish to make your decision for you. If you choose not to believe me, then I will accept it,” she says, holding her chin up high.

“...You are so prepared to die,” Otabek says, sounding slightly amazed. “How did you know any of this?”

She cackles. “Fate is not so linear, my love. There are multiple possibilities to each outcome. I have foresaw this possibility as well as others, and have accepted each one.” The witch then closes her eyes. “I do not fear something I cannot control. If I should die here, then fine. If I should live to see the sun shine on my dearest child’s face, then that will be fine as well.”

The three stand there in the darkened forest with the moon shining brightly above their heads, neither of them daring to make the first move. Leo stands tense, his heart feeling like it is about to leap from his chest. If what the witch says is true, then...then the son might be in danger. They - they need to do something!

After the longest pause for what seems like eternity, Otabek nods his head only once. With that, he turns on the heel of his boots and begins to walk back down the path.

“Where are you going?!” Leo sputters.

“Home,” Otabek answers without giving a second glance, and disappears into the darkness of the forest.

Leo does a nervous sidestep, turning to the witch that is smiling kindly at him. “M’am! The Hero, he’s - he’s on his way to your son _right now!_ You and him need to escape!”

“Is that so?” she says without any urgency in her voice. It only makes Leo’s head hurt with confusion even more.

The witch takes her shawl from around her and leans forward to drape it around Leo’s shoulders. It smells of roses and is surprising warm for being so thin; Leo’s jumpy movements cease entirely.

“You looked cold, my child,” she says to his bewildered expression. “Hurry home and rest your head. You seem rather tired.”

Leo grits his teeth. “But M’am!” he cries.

“You truly are meant for so much more, my child,” she says, and cups his face in her wrinkled hands. She brings him down and kisses his forehead once, before she murmurs, “Go home.”

Leo doesn’t want to, but his legs start moving without his consent. His feet start taking him down the marshy path, left foot then right then left again.

Looking over his shoulder, Leo sees the witch continuing forward with her basket, further further further, until she too disappears into the darkness.

 

* * *

 

The tower light has been snuffed out when the woman arrives. Her dearest child must surely fallen asleep waiting for her to return.

She only makes it a few steps towards the hidden door, when she hears it so faintly: a heartbeat frantic with rage, and quickly charging steps. As she turns, it feels as if the world around her moves faster than her. It happens so quickly.

But, it would be foolish to say that she did not foresee this outcome as well.

The Hero Gerhardt stands only centimeters from her. The only thing separating them is the dagger that he drove into her stomach. His eyes sparkle rather triumphantly, a cold smile on his lips as he gives the dagger’s hilt a rough twist.

“If the Storyteller says it will happen,” Gerhardt tells her, “then it will come true. It is your fault that you dared to interfere with what is only destiny between your son and I.”

“You are a foolish boy,” she says, blood and spittle appearing from the corner of her mouth.

“No, I am the Hero,” he says, and yanks the dagger back.

The woman falls to her knees with a loud scream of pain, clutching at the wound. Above them, the tower’s light immediately turns on. Her dearest child is awake.

Gerhardt stands above the woman, no remorse or pity in his smile. “I shall do well to comfort your beautiful son when he finds you. Take peace in that as you pass over, dear woman,” he tells her.

“And I shall do well to make sure that you will get your comeuppance. My child will _never_ love a monster like you. That is a _**promise**_.”

“I tire of hearing your voice,” he mutters, and brings the dagger to her neck. “If you should use your tongue to speak, then let your last words be ones of beauty. Tell me the name of my beloved.”

The woman feels the blood filling her mouth as she lies there dying. She thinks of her dearest Yuuri. She thinks of his family that long to see him. She thinks of her past and her present and her Purpose.

She thinks of a name as her very last thought.

“Victor,” she says aloud.

“Victor...” Gerhardt mutters, then frowns as the woman laughs.

“Victor is the name of my child’s true love. And he will kill you. I’ll make sure of it.”

Gerhardt‘s eyes widen with rage.

“Insolent, disgusting _witch_ ,” he hisses, and drags the edge of his dagger across her throat to silence her for good.


	3. Go the Distance

Yuuri dreams he is floating.

His arms are spread wide, like a bird about to take flight. His legs, his feet, they are moving like he’s running, but he doesn’t touch the ground. There’s a gentle breeze that carries him, envelops his body like a mother’s loving hug, and it fills his lungs with such rapture that he soars.

The scenery is familiar, the forest glen where the river trickles down into a stream. He skips over a rock, circles a large tree covered with moss, and then rises up into the air once more.

Yuuri laughs, twirling in the air and moving into an arabesque, allowing the invisible wind to ghost around his frame as he dances upon the current. He’s never felt so elated, so free, so warm. The current moves with his body, the winds dance with him, curving around his frame as he ebbs and flows with the melody inside his head.

And then, the wind doesn’t feel like wind against his body. It feels warmer. It feels solid.

Yuuri half turns and then spins, and he is pulled back not by the force of the wind, but by a hand, and into the arms of the Painted Man.

The blues of the man’s eyes are bright with intrigue. His smile, bemused and shaping into a heart, looks frustratingly kissable. His arms wind themselves around Yuuri’s waist, and he pulls Yuuri against his chest so their heartbeats press against each other. He’s beautiful. He’s absolutely _beautiful_.

Yuuri’s initial surprise is short-lived, finding the strange familiarity in the man’s arms that he’s always found in every single piece of artwork he’s made. He opens his mouth, a question just at the tip of his tongue while sudden heat rises to his face.

But Yuuri is barely able to make a sound when the Painted Man disappears from his arms, like someone took their thumb and insensitively smudged him away. At the same time, Yuuri hears a bloodcurdling scream, and he wakes up.

The lights inside the tower immediately brighten the moment he is upright in his chair, the meager dinner of boiled potatoes and cured meat he prepared for him and his Mother sitting on the table cold and untouched. Yuuri looks to the window, heart beating frantic. No one knows of the tower’s existence or the path to take to even find it. Therefore, the only person that could have made that scream...

Yuuri staggers to his feet and immediately grabs his cloak and a kitchen knife sheathed in a leather pouch. He shoves his feet into his boots, not even bothering to properly lace them, before he is running down the spiraling staircase. He takes them two steps, then three steps at a time. The gold ring bounces against his chest with each step, and he hisses a mantra through tightly clenched teeth. _Please be okay. Please be okay. Please be okay_.

He reaches the door and with a trembling hand, fails to draw the correct insignia to unlock it. It is a simple one, something Yuuri remembers to resemble a flower but with thirteen petals. He’s only drawn the insignia once, and even then it took a few tries to get it with a steady and quick stroke of his finger. Now, with the thought that something might have happened, something _terrible_ , Yuuri can’t stop shaking.

He tries and he tries and he _tries_ , frustration and anger and panic consuming him with each hurried flick of his wrist. “Please!” he grits out and bangs his hand on the door. “Mother! Mother!”

There is no response.

Yuuri tries the insignia once more, sucking in a deep breath and concentrating as the tip of his finger curves and quickens against the knob. This time, this time, _please_ let it be this time.

As he withdraws his hand, the sigil on the knob suddenly glows a hot red. It fades, before there is an audible noise of the lock coming off.

Yuuri nearly throws his weight on the door, the cold night air hitting him square in the face along with the scent of fresh blood.

It would be hard for Yuuri to ignore that there is a body lying in a crumpled heap five steps away from where he stands. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t breathe.

The moon casts its glow upon the body. Yuuri’s heart chokes him at the sight.

“Mother!” his voice rips from his twisted mouth, and he runs.

Falling to his knees beside her, he pulls the woman into his arms. She’s cold and she’s stiff, arms at her side useless and her head lolling back. Yuuri’s hand traces to her neck for a pulse, only to pull his hand back to find it covered in her blood. He hears something in his ears, loud and miserable, rising and falling in pitch. After a few seconds, he realizes it’s himself. It’s his screaming. It’s his crying.

In the dark of the night, Yuuri holds tight to the woman. He buries his face into her hair, and he smothers his tears and his voice and every shortened breath.

Why? Why did this happen? _How_ did this happen? He asks so many questions in his mind, but he can’t even think of an answer or a rationalization with the cold against his skin and nauseating scent of blood permeating his nose.

Yuuri doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand at all.

His head shoots up when he hears the sound of a tree branch snap in his quiet misery, suddenly alert and aware.

“Who’s there?!” he shouts, cradling his mother against him even though it isn’t like she needs his protection.

There’s another sound of a twig’s branch snapping. Yuuri clutches to the woman even tighter, reaching for the leather pouch concealing the knife.

After a moment of silence, a man enters the clearing, guiding his horse by its reins.

He’s tall and broad shouldered, with golden hair and deep brown eyes that look over Yuuri in surprise. He has a square shaped jaw, and a well-defined nose. Objectively, the stranger is rather handsome.

Yuuri doesn’t let his guard down. “Who are you?” he questions. “What do you want?”

“Do not be afraid,” the man says, raising his hand to show he means no harm. “What happened here? Are you in need of help?”

Yuuri looks down at his mother in his arms. The expression on her face looks as though she were laughing, but Yuuri can’t fathom how that can be when someone slit her throat like a heartless monster. To that, he chokes out another sob, but recollects himself before he is able to fall apart in front of the stranger.

“My - my mother is...I don’t know what happened,” Yuuri admits. He closes his eyes tight, as if somehow this is all still a dream that he can wake up from.

When he reopens them, the stranger has kneeled beside him, and Yuuri flinches away.

The stranger gives Yuuri a smile. “Is there anything I can do to help you?” he asks.

Technically, yes.

Yuuri desperately needs to reach the village and find the undertaker, so as to run an autopsy to find what is the cause of his mother’s death. Then, there would be the matter of informing the Royal Guard to locate whoever it is that took his mother’s life. But, would they even care to find the killer of an old beggar woman? What if they leave it as an ‘unfortunate mugging’ and do _nothing?_

He clenches his teeth and scrunches his eyes tight. “No. Please, please just leave us alone,” he says, and tries to get a hold of his mother. She’s heavy and she’s stiff; Yuuri struggles just to get to his knees with her in his grasp.

“It would do you no good to move her like this,” the man tells him, rising to stand as well. Yuuri ignores his words, wrapping his arms around his mother’s midsection and finding a wound here as well. He clenches his teeth, thinking of the pain she must have felt. Why? Why? _Why?_

The stranger approaches Yuuri, and he reaches out to grab at the woman’s ankles as Yuuri drags her.

“What are you doing?!” Yuuri snaps, his voice coming out harsher and louder than he intends.

The stranger steps away, hands raised. “I am trying to help-“

“Please, just go away,” Yuuri says, and continues to pull his mother towards the door. He knows he’ll struggle to get it open, and only hopes that the stranger doesn’t try to enter the tower with him.

Watching the other man closely, Yuuri asks with suspicion, “Who are you and why are you here?”

The stranger smiles. “Don’t be afraid, my love,” he says, and gets down on one knee. “I am The Hero Gerhardt, from the Land of Fleur. I have traveled a great distance and happened upon this tower in hopes of a kind soul allowing me shelter for the night.” The man looks at Yuuri, eyes shimmering as a smile comes to his soft-looking lips. “I did not know such a beautiful being as yourself resided in such a lonely place.”

Yuuri feels his shirt growing damp and sticky with his mother’s blood. He tries to adjust his hold on her with his left hand, while his right goes for the knife in the leather pouch.

“You must have passed the village. There is no way to arrive here _without_ passing the village,” Yuuri says, and points the knife at Gerhardt. “W-Why didn’t you stop there?”

Gerhardt raises his hands. “You’re frightened. That’s understandable after seeing such a tragic sight,” he says, forlornly looking at the woman in Yuuri’s hold.

Yuuri tries to keep the tremble of his hand from going noticed. “I don’t know who you are, but there is no place for you in the tower. Please, leave us,” he demands. Gerhardt stares at Yuuri, unmoving, before he smiles.

“I told you, my love, I am a Hero,” Gerhardt says. Yuuri’s lips twist in distaste at the endearing term, the knife still raised and pointed at Gerhardt’s chest.

Gerhardt sighs. “Fine then, I will show to you that I mean no harm,” he says, and hoists himself onto his horse. “You say there is a village nearby? Then surely they must have an undertaker. I will go and fetch him so you can stay by your departed mother’s side. Will that be of some help?”

Yuuri averts his eyes and doesn’t say a word.

Gerhardt chuckles. “Such a stubborn beauty,” he chides, directing his horse to face the pathway from whence he came. Looking over his shoulder at Yuuri, he smiles. “May I ask of your name?”

“Does it matter?” Yuuri responds in turn, and an uncomfortable silence fills the space between them.

“...Fine then,” Gerhardt says, noticeably bitter. “I will return with haste,” he announces. Yuuri doesn’t say anything, holding tightly to his mother’s body as the stranger disappears down the trail and into the darkness.

 

* * *

 

It is approximately an hour for The Hero Gerhardt to arrive with the Undertaker and the Undertaker’s wife, the black carriage slowly creeping into the forest clearing with the aid of a lantern’s light. The Undertaker and his wife are still in their sleeping gowns, exhaustion clearly evident by how they nearly tumble off the carriage when their horse slows to a stop.

The Undertaker drapes a white sheet over the woman’s body as his wife offers her blessing, her hands pressed together and eyes sleepily fluttering. Yuuri flitters around them like a bird, nervously pacing as they load his mother’s body into the carriage. Gerhardt, meanwhile, watches Yuuri from atop his steed, expression neutral.

“How long will it take for you to find the cause?” Yuuri asks the Undertaker the mere second he closes the doors and Yuuri cannot see his mother through the darkened windows of the carriage. The Undertaker - a small portly man with wrinkles on his face - yawns before he gives his response.

“In the morning, maybe. It seems like a bandit, though can’t imagine why rob a beggar woman,” he says. He pulls his black hat from his head, holding it gingerly in his hands. “I do say though. Of all the years that I have lived in this village, I had no idea this place existed. Young man, have you lived here by yourself?”

Yuuri twiddles his thumbs, biting at his lower lip. “Y-Yes. And, how long will it be to find _who_ did it? Is...is there a way you can tell or-“

“It wouldn’t surprise me if that Altin had something to do with it,” the Undertaker’s wife says with disdain. Her shape is as round as her husband, with her thin brown hair held up with pins and a light caking of powder on her cheeks. “The Storyteller _said_ that he is nothing but a crook like his father. A downright thug. We should have run him out of town months ago before he had the chance to take this poor boy’s mother away from him.”

“Young man, do you have any other relatives to stay with?” the Undertaker asks. Yuuri shakes his head ‘no’.

“It’s only been my mother and I. She’s never mentioned anything of relatives to me,” Yuuri explains. The Undertaker and his wife exchange glances with each other, before it is the woman that offers her hands forward.

“You should come with us, young man. It will do you good to be amongst others in this time of mourning,” she says with a nod. Yuuri’s hands remain at his sides, and he shakes his head.

“No, I’d...I’d rather stay here. Just, please tell me when you find the culprit-“

“Nonsense! Leave you here alone in the woods?! What kind of people would we be to allow you to go through this alone?!” the wife protests. Stepping forward, she cups Yuuri’s face. “And my, you look ran down! When was the last time you’ve had a decent meal?”

Yuuri pulls away from her touch. “I _said_ I’m fine-“

“And I’ve not once seen you in the village square all the times she came begging for scraps and making herself a nuisance to the shopkeepers. What kind of mother _locks away_ her child in some _tower_ -“

“Enough!” Gerhardt’s voice booms, and the wife’s chatter immediately ceases.

The Hero dismounts from his horse, approaching Yuuri with softness in his eyes. “It is evident that regardless of how she raised him, he loved her dearly. If he wishes to be alone, then we must honor his request,” Gerhardt tells the woman, giving her a disapproving frown. She bites her tongue, before begrudgingly nodding her head.

Turning to the Undertaker, Gerhardt says, “We will call all the citizens of the village to rally together in the morning to find the culprit. Undertaker, I ask of you to not leave any stone unturned and bring forth justice.”

The elder man nods his head. “Anything to be of service to a Hero,” he says. Turning to Yuuri, the man places back on his hat. “If you should change your mind, young man, then the inn’s doors are always open. I am deeply sorry for your loss, and I shall do my best.”

Yuuri averts his eyes to the ground, and nods his head only once.

The Undertaker and his wife leave, the wife loudly commenting on Yuuri’s apparent rudeness as the carriage departs. Yuuri holds his tongue and doesn’t watch the carriage leave. His hands are drawn tight into fists and his heart aches in his chest, hurting with each steely breath he takes.

“Please allow yourself some rest,” Gerhardt says to Yuuri, mounting his horse once again. “I shall arrive here in the morning to escort you to the village.”

“That won’t be necessary-“

“I insist-“

“I _said no!_ ”

He doesn’t mean for his voice to crack, but it does. He’s shaking, with anger, with sadness, with pain. The question of ‘why?’ still runs rampant through his mind: why did this happen? Why did his mother have to die? Why wont these people just leave him be?

Gerhardt doesn’t say anything to that. He only watches Yuuri and the tremble of his shoulders, the knocking of his knees, and downwards cast of his eyes.

“Then I shall see you in the village in the morning,” Gerhardt says, tone distant. He gets a good hold of the reins of his horse. “Farewell, stranger,” he announces to the night’s air.

And for some reason, Yuuri can’t seem to hold his words back.

“Yuuri,” he says before Gerhardt can leave. The Hero looks over his shoulder, surprise in his eyes.

“Yuuri...that is your name?” Gerhardt asks.

Yuuri wraps arms around himself, hunching his shoulders to his ears, and nods.

It seems as though Gerhardt’s emotions do a flip in the span of a moment. His eyes brighten and his smile grows handsome, laughing outright. “Such a beautiful name for a beautiful being,” he compliments. “Yuuri, my love. I shall see you in the morning where we will find justice for your mother, together.”

 _That endearing term again._ Of everything that has happened tonight, the man’s insistence to call Yuuri that is just one of many things Yuuri can’t get his mind wrapped around.

With a bellowing ‘farewell!’ The Hero Gerhardt rides off into the darkness, leaving Yuuri to stand in the empty clearing in front of the tower, his one and only home. When Yuuri returns inside, he finds it even colder than the night’s chill. His legs feel heavy as he treads up the staircase; his body feels numb as he strips himself of the bloodied clothing to place with his dirty laundry.

His mother’s room is locked when he passes by on his way to his room. He’s never once questioned why he was never allowed inside, but now that she is gone, he can’t help but wonder just what kind of person she was. And maybe, if there was something about her that Yuuri didn’t know that caused someone to raise their blade and coldly kill her in the night.

Yuuri enters his room and steps around his art supplies, falling into his bed where he can gaze upon the portrait of the Painted Man basking in the moonlight. He never told his mother about his dreams. He never told his mother about his thoughts. He never told his mother about how he thinks he is in love - hopelessly, deeply, _madly_ in love - with a man Yuuri isn’t sure even exists. He didn’t tell her a lot of things.

Regret fills his mouth, and he buries his face in his pillow.

Yuuri doesn’t cry, but he doesn’t fall asleep so quickly as he would have wished to. He lies awake and constantly repeats ‘why?’ aloud in his head, while the portrait of the Painted Man’s blueblue eyes quietly watches over him through the night.

 

* * *

 

The morning after, Yuuri quickly bathes himself in the washtub and dresses in a grey-sleeved shirt and black leather jerkin. He pulls up his trousers and laces his boots, places a pair of golden-wire glasses upon his nose, before he then drapes a lavender shawl over his head and shoulders.

It’s then Yuuri remembers that his mother’s shawl was missing from her person last night. A bandit would have no need for the fabric - not like it was in any way extravagant or would keep someone warm in the night - but why was it gone?

He closes his eyes tight. Another ‘why?’ and he’s yet to answer any of the questions he already has.

Yuuri hurries down the stairs to the door, and he is able to exit in a timely manner compared to his frantic panic last night. To his relief, there is no one waiting for him out in the clearing, the sun slowly crawling to its place in the blue sky, and the Spring scent of flowers finding its way to Yuuri’s nose.

He begins to walk to the path, following the trail that was cleared by the Undertaker’s carriage and Gerhardt riding through. Briefly, Yuuri wonders if someone followed his mother from the village. It’s the only explanation for how someone were to find a tower that no one should know exists.

But, it wouldn’t make sense for them to attack her mere steps from the tower where someone inside could hear her scream. Why didn’t they do it here on the path, so she would be alone and it would be days for her body to be found? And why didn’t they try to get into the tower to loot it after they were done with her? Why, why, _why?_

Yuuri walks and walks, his feet growing tired and lips growing parched. His stomach growls from skipping on breakfast, and it doesn’t take long for the sun to make the air hot and Yuuri’s skin prickle with sweat. Pausing momentarily to catch his breath, Yuuri leans up against a tree covered with moss, fanning himself with his shawl.

He continues forward, walking, walking, walking, until the path starts to grow even and appear more treaded upon. He hears a bustle of noise, of people’s voices shouting and laughing and carrying on with their day. Yuuri pulls his shawl to conceal his face, before he takes to the first alleyway that he can find and disappears into its darkness.

The noise of the village seems to be more distant as he walks through the alley, dirtied with litter and smelling of urine. Yuuri brings his hand to his face to hold in his gag, lightly tiptoeing around the garbage that the rats nibble at and the cockroaches that swarm around his feet.

As he nears the exit, a loud noise thumps from behind and Yuuri jumps.

“Who’s there?!” he shouts as a pile of garbage knocks itself over from a crate. From the mound of trash, a little puppy wriggles itself free, tail wagging and ears perking up in interest on seeing Yuuri.

Yuuri places a hand to his heart, not realizing it is beating so quickly. “Oh,” and he takes in a deep breath, allowing his shoulders to drop momentarily with ease.

He continues walking down the alley, but stops when the puppy suddenly scampers in front of him, giving a happy little yip. Yuuri smiles at it kindly, but steps around.

“I can’t play right now,” he tells it, continuing forward. The puppy doesn’t seem to understand, and follows at Yuuri’s heels, continuing to bark.

Yuuri stops and starts multiple times, repeatedly shooing the puppy away only to find that the moment he turns around to continue walking, the puppy is right there at his side begging for attention. As he enters the village square, the puppy begins to nuzzles its head against the side of Yuuri’s boot, panting up at him and tapping its paw against Yuuri’s heel.

Yuuri sighs, bending down to scoop the puppy up into his hands.

It’s a boy, and he smells.

“I told you, I’m _busy_ ,” Yuuri scolds, but the puppy begins to affectionately lick at his hands and at his face. Yuuri can’t withhold the bit of laughter to bubble up from his chest, holding the puppy close. “You’re rather cute...but I can’t play with you, understand?”

From the way the puppy affectionately nuzzles against Yuuri, content, he assumes not.

“Yuuri!” A voice shouts and Yuuri jumps. He turns to see Gerhardt approaching, golden hair looking brilliant in the light of the sun and a boisterous smile on his lips. He stops only centimeters from Yuuri, to which Yuuri immediately steps back to put some space in between them.

“Um, good morning,” Yuuri responds, finding interest with the ground.

Gerhardt decides to minimize the distance between them again, allowing his arm to wrap firmly around Yuuri’s shoulders. “Come,” he says, “we have business at the tavern.”

The puppy in Yuuri’s arms begins to growl, a low rumble as he tenses in Yuuri’s grasp.

Gerhardt raises his eyebrow at the pup. “Where on Earth did you find that mangy little thing?” he asks. Yuuri strokes a hand through the puppy’s curly brown fur to calm him, but the animal continues to growl regardless.

“In the alleyway. I think he might have been abandoned,” Yuuri explains.

Gerhardt clicks his tongue. “Your kindness is well-admired, but you must be careful, my love,” he says, and he makes a reach towards the puppy. “Who knows what kind of filthy, diseased-“

The puppy snaps, biting Gerhardt’s knuckle before he is able to grab him by the scruff of his collar.

Gerhardt screams and recoils away, while the puppy jumps from Yuuri’s arms and scampers back down the alleyway. The Hero grips at his hand, hissing a slew of curses through his teeth. Yuuri quickly steps away, hands flying to hide behind his back.

“A-Are you okay?!” Yuuri asks. Gerhardt seethes, before suddenly he is calm, and he turns to Yuuri with a smile.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

Feeling awkward, Yuuri draws closer. “Um.” He reaches out and takes Gerhardt’s hand to inspect it, finding the bite to not look too bad. Turning his gaze to Gerhardt’s face, Yuuri says, “It...it doesn’t look like it could be infected. But, um, it’s not like I’m the doctor or anything so, maybe you should just ask them to be sure.”

Gerhardt turns his hands so he holds Yuuri’s delicately in his grasp. He smiles down upon them like they’re treasures.

“Such beautiful hands,” he muses aloud, and he brings them up to his mouth to kiss lightly at Yuuri’s knuckles.

Yuuri immediately snatches his hands away, hiding them behind his back.

“U-Um, the tavern?” he says, and starts walking without waiting for a response. Shortly after, Gerhardt rushes after him, attempting to walk in sync but always falling two steps behind Yuuri’s pace.

The tavern is swarmed with the townsfolk, while a carriage with the Royal Guard’s insignia embellished along the sides waits outside its doors. When Gerhardt arrives, the crowd parts to allow him entrance. They stay parted when Yuuri passes, giving an eruption of murmurs and whispers, wide-eyed stares and pointing fingers. Yuuri pulls at his shawl again, trying to block out the people around him.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Gerhardt’s voice bellows. Yuuri pulls the covering of his shawl back just enough to see that there’s a group of men - villagers surprisingly - that have another young man pinned to the ground, with his arm bent backwards to restrain him.

Behind the crowd of villagers, the Royal Guard stands watch, intimidating in their silver and gold armor, chains clutched in their fists.

Gerhardt gets down to one knee in front of the young man on the ground. “Otabek Altin,” he says, and he says the name with absolute disgust, “you are charged with the murder of my beloved’s mother. And if you should have any ounce of decency in your body, you would confess your sins and beg for forgiveness instead of us having to drag it out of you.”

The young man - Otabek Altin apparently - struggles under the villager’s hold. He grits his teeth, growling like a caged animal.

“If you had any _sliver_ of decency, you would take that sword of yours and slit your throat like you did that witch,” Otabek hisses through his clenched teeth.

“Shut up!” A villager shouts, grabbing at Otabek’s hair to yank his head back. “Everyone knows that you did it! What other cold-hearted monster would kill a harmless old woman and leave her body for her child to see?!”

Gerhardt raises his hand, and the villager releases their hold on Otabek’s head, only to allow Gerhardt to take his foot and step on the side of Otabek’s skull to hold him in place.

“You have a lot of nerve to say that _I_ \- a Hero who’s only purpose is to _help_ those in need - killed the mother of my true love,” he says and gives a chuckle that sounds off to Yuuri’s ears. “Truly, you are as despicable as the Storyteller says you are.”

To that, Otabek doesn’t dignify the crowd with a response.

Gerhardt removes his boot, looking to the Royal Guard. “Please, relieve this kind village of this menace. And give the Storyteller my best regards.”

The villagers erupt into a cacophonous cheer, screams of Gerhardt’s name and heckling of Otabek’s mingling together to form one sound. The villagers yank Otabek to his feet, while the Royal Guard shackles the chains to his wrists. Otabek puts up little fight, the darkness of his glare never leaving the proud grin of Gerhardt’s lips.

In the chaos, in the noise, Yuuri feels it. That gentle floating breeze.

He doesn’t realize that his feet are moving, tenderly through the masses as if he were walking on air, until he’s there. Standing right in front of Otabek and looking into his eyes.

The crowd falls into a confused silence.

Yuuri blinks, then steps away in sudden awareness. “I,” he starts, looking at Otabek through his eyelashes. “...Did you do it?”

Otabek purses his lips, looking all around.

Yuuri’s hands clutch tightly in fists at his sides. “Please. The truth is all I want.”

A hand rests firmly on Yuuri’s shoulders. “Come, my love,” Gerhardt says, pulling Yuuri back himself. “There’s no need to show your kindness towards someone that doesn’t deserve it.”

Yuuri pulls away from Gerhardt’s hand. “Did you kill her?” Yuuri asks Otabek again, hating the tremble of his voice, the begging of it for _someone_ to give him an answer.

It isn’t Otabek that responds.

“No!” A voice from the crowd shouts, and Yuuri turns. Someone is hastily pushing themselves towards the front, revealing themselves to be another man, younger than Yuuri but surely not by much. Following him, an elderly woman and her husband emerge from the crowd, both looking like they’ve only woken from bed minutes ago.

“Leo! What are you doing?!” The woman asks, trying to pull the boy back into the crowd. The boy - Leo - immediately runs to Yuuri, only stopping mere inches away.

“Otabek didn’t kill her! It was him!” Leo shouts, and points an accusatory finger at Gerhardt without any fear.

The tavern remains uncomfortably quiet.

“He was plotting to kill the witch because she kidnapped his true love, but it was all a lie! I - I mean - them - _you_ being his true love. She - she was still a witch, but she was kind! I tried to warn her, but she wouldn’t listen! But Otabek isn’t the one that killed her! She was still alive last time I saw her!” Leo confesses.

Gerhardt is silent, watching Leo ever so closely.

The elderly couple nervously fret in their place among the crowd, while the villagers around them look among themselves, not quite sure what to make of this sudden news.

“You were the last one to see her?” Yuuri asks, stepping closer towards Leo, eyes wide with hope.

Leo nods with pink in his face. Reaching into the pocket of his trousers, he withdraws a bundled black piece of fabric Yuuri recognizes immediately.

Yuuri doesn’t wait for Leo to speak. He grabs the black shawl that belongs to his mother and clutches it to his chest, against his saddened heart.

“Why do you have this?” he asks, sounding breathless. Leo begins to respond, but Gerhardt’s laugh halts his tongue.

“Of course, I see now,” the Hero says, approaching Leo with confident steps. “Altin isn’t the one that killed the old woman. It was _you_.”

The color from Leo’s face drains in an instant.

“N-No! I didn’t!” he cries.

“Why else would you have something that belongs to her if you didn’t loot it off of her cold, dead body!” Gerhardt accuses.

“She gave it to me!”

“A _likely_ story. How frail she was, she would have been in more need of it than you!”

The villagers start their murmuring again. Their gazes fix themselves upon Leo, some of confusion, but majority of disgust.

Leo looks around, eyes wide in a panic. “No! No, you have to listen! He’s lying! He’s the one that killed the witch! It wasn’t Otabek or I that-“

“Don’t call her that,” Yuuri speaks, and his voice doesn’t feel like his own. It tastes funny in his mouth, sounding of such bitterness and anger. Frustration, confusion, his bones ache and his heart feels so heavy the longer he clutches to his mother’s shawl.

Yuuri’s eyes are scrunched tight, holding back his tears. “My mother wasn’t a witch. She didn’t steal me away. She...she loved me. She cared for me. She protected me and raised me and she was _kind_.” He brings the shawl to his nose and finds that it still smells of her, of sweet roses.

“I don’t care anymore who killed her,” Yuuri bites, shoulders trembling. “I just want to know _why_.”

The Hero Gerhardt steps towards Yuuri. “I can tell you then,” he says, and points his finger at Leo. “You, Stable Boy, do not know your place. You’re jealous of me, jealous of a Hero’s life, and sought to take it upon yourself to rid the village of a non-existent threat so you can play Hero for a day.”

“That’s bullshit!” Leo yells, hands drawing into fists.

“Leo,” the elderly woman speaks, voice quiet with slight fear. “You...you weren’t at the stables last night.”

She steps forward, her entire body trembling. “Leo...please...please tell me you didn’t see that woman last night. It was only Altin. _Please_ say you don’t have anything to do with this,” she begs.

Leo’s mouth falls open in worry. “M-Mama, I-“

“It was all you,” Gerhardt says. “You left the stables, you followed that woman and accused her of being a witch-“

“She was one! She told me!” Leo snaps.

“As if anyone would _admit_ to being a witch!” A villager shouts, and the chorus of heckles breaks out again, even louder and angrier than before.

“Liar!”

“Murderer!”

“How dare you try and be a Hero! Only the Storyteller declares those that are worthy!”

“Trash just like Altin! Hang ‘em both!”

Yuuri closes his eyes, bringing his lips against the fabric of the black shawl and deeply breathes in the scent. The noise, these voices, _everything_ is just so _loud_. There’s too many people. There’s too much emotion. There’s too many questions that run through Yuuri’s mind at speeds he can’t catch up with, and none of them are being answered as quickly as they spring up. Nothing is making sense. Nothing is making sense and he doesn’t know what to _do_.

“No! No! He’s lying! He’s-“ A Royal Guard wraps his bicep around Leo’s neck, silencing him as he hoists him roughly against him.

“Quiet, you! You’re _both_ coming with us!” he roars. The villagers scream both their approval and their resentment of the two in chains, while Leo continues to kick and squirm and fight against the Royal Guard’s hold.

Leo’s mother helplessly reaches out and grabs at Yuuri’s hands, startling him. Leo’s father, meanwhile, uselessly tries to go after the Royal Guard, but the crowd of hecklers keep him at distance as they follow out of the tavern to the carriage. Leo’s screams of protest get lost in the noise. There’s just so much _noise_.

“Please, _please_ ,” she begs of him, squeezing his hands too tight. “My son is innocent! He wouldn’t do such a thing! There must be something else!”

Yuuri can’t breathe. He’s hissing in short breaths of air through tightly clenched teeth. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t _understand_.

“So you think the _Hero_ did it?! Don’t be a senile fool!” a heckler protests. Leo’s mother vehemently shakes her head ‘no’, tears streaming down her cheeks as she clutches Yuuri’s hands against her steadfast beating heart.

“Please, _please_ tell them it wasn’t him! It could be anyone else! Anyone but him! _Please!_ ” she begs, she cries, she pleads. Gerhardt steps forward, laying a hand on the woman’s shoulder to lightly push her away.

“If you have such faith and find fault in my words, then go to the Storyteller. His words are the final truth, and you will see for yourself that I am of a genuine heart,” Gerhardt says. The woman’s eyes widen with surprise, then slight fear.

“G-Go to the Capital? To see the Storyteller?” she asks.

Gerhardt shrugs. “If you choose to doubt my words, then only the Storyteller can confirm whether or not I speak the truth. In fact-“ Gerhardt’s arm goes around Yuuri’s shoulders, pulling him firmly against his side. “My beloved and I shall also make our way to the Capital. It is about time that we finally join our Stories together and become one as a couple bound by fate and love.”

Yuuri finds his tongue at last, only to choke out a confused, “ _What?_ ”

Gerhardt smiles, forgetting the downfallen expression of Leo’s mother’s face as he turns to Yuuri. He rests a hand on Yuuri’s waist, while the other tenderly cups Yuuri’s face.

“My love, while it is unfortunate that we have met under such dark circumstances, I must confess that of all sights and places that I have traveled, of all the people I have met and Stories that I have heard, I have never been as moved as I have when I laid my eyes on you,” Gerhardt says, his voice low and words dripping with want. “It was love at first sight. I knew then and there that the person I’ve been searching for - my promised true love by the Storyteller’s kind words - had to be you, for I have never felt this way with no other soul in this vast world we call home.”

Yuuri pulls away from Gerhardt, but Gerhardt is faster and pulls him right back in.

“I don’t understand-“ Yuuri tries to say, but he’s finding it hard to breathe again, vision swirling and muddling its color.

“There is nothing to fret about, my love,” Gerhardt says, getting down on bended knee. “We shall go to the Capital and stand before the Storyteller who will see our union of love. And while this tragedy is what brought us together, I have no doubt that our Stories will be happier together than they will if we are apart.”

The villagers that remained in the tavern gather closely, eyes wide, hopefully entranced by the words Gerhardt weaves with expert precise.

“Yuuri, my dearest love,” Gerhardt says, and he smiles like he is the blessed Sun casting a light in the darkness of Yuuri’s mind, “will you take my hand and be my husband, till fate parts us from this mortal coil?”

Yuuri doesn’t know where to look, but it isn’t like he can see anything in the first place. Everything sounds like a distant echo in his ears. Everything looks as though it were smudged and crudely blended together to the point that no one is recognizable in Yuuri’s eyes. He feels that his glasses are still perched on his nose. He still feels his hands, his feet, all ten of his toes and fingers. Yet, it doesn’t feel real at the same time. It feels...it feels...

There are smiles all around him. Big, inquisitive eyes, energetic nods, eager whispers of encouragement. They seem to enclose on him, drawing closer and closer and closer. _Do it_ , the smiles and eyes of the strangers urge. _Do it, do it, **do it.**_

Yuuri can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe.

He finds himself stepping backwards, accidentally bumping against a villager’s shoulder. They laugh at his paling face, resting gentle hands upon his shoulders to steer him back towards Gerhardt. No, no, _no_.

Yuuri breaks away from them, stumbling, before his feet take off into a run. There’s a burst of noise, of confused shouts and exclamations of surprise. Hands try to reach out and grab Yuuri before he can escape, to stop him, to talk some sense into him, to not be a fool and accept The Hero Gerhardt’s hand as _fate_ says he should. He dodges each one, breathing too hard and too quick as he does so.

He runs out of the tavern. He runs past the crowd of hecklers that cheer as the Royal Guard’s carriage departs from the village square with Leo and Otabek inside. He runs, he runs, he runs. Behind him, he hears a voice screaming his name, and Yuuri can’t mistake the absolute _fury_ of the way the voice screeches his name into the sky. But he doesn’t stop running. He isn’t even sure where he is running to as he disappears into the forest, but he doesn’t stop.

 

* * *

 

On the cusp of sunset, Yuuri collapses by a river stream, far off from his tower and the village’s noise. His legs are sore and numb, and his chest feels as though someone weighed it down with a thousand stones. He clutches at his stomach and violently heaves, tears burning at the corners of his eyes and spit dripping down his chin. An awful heat builds beneath his skin, and there’s a throb in his head as he thinks and he thinks and he _thinks_.

Why?

Why?

_Why is this happening?_

Yuuri is able to collect himself, if only for a minute, before he curls his knees against his chest and buries his face in the crooks of his arms. Why is this happening? How come this is happening to _him?_ He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t _like_  not knowing what to do.

A loving breeze moves through his hair, carrying the scent of flowers and the mist of the river’s water off its surface. Yuuri lifts his face just enough to look upon his reflection, and to feel remorse at the sunken-in expression of his eyes, the tear-stained cheeks and the sickly pale color of his skin.

He sits there in the quiet, in his own thoughts, and he listens to the wind.

...

...

...

_CRACK!_

Yuuri jumps in his spot, heard whirring to look over his shoulders, eyes momentarily wide with fear at the thought of being followed.

And it turns out, he _did_ get followed. But to his relief, it isn’t who he feared.

The puppy wanders into the clearing, dragging with him a bright red cloak that nearly gets snagged on a thistle of thorns. He carries it and drops the fabric into a heap at Yuuri’s side, his tail wagging excitedly and eyes begging for an acknowledgment of his task.

Though his hand feels heavy and rather numb still, Yuuri lifts it to curl fingers through the puppy’s hair.

“How did you find me?” he asks. As usual, the puppy does not have an answer, and only snuggles more against Yuuri’s warmth.

Yuuri decides to not think much of it either, and instead reaches for the fabric to unfurl it so he can get a better look. It’s a beautiful cloak, one that was surely stitched with love and care. Someone will miss this dearly.

“Where did you find this?” Yuuri asks aloud, not expecting an answer. He brings the cloak to his nose, smelling of pine needles and berries. It’s also warm too; Yuuri feels a strong urge to place it on his own shoulders and melt into its comfort.

He gets his answer in the form of hearing more twigs snapping behind him, louder and heavier as though there is something traipsing through the greenery and coming straight towards him.

Yuuri shoots up to his feet, slightly woozy and off-balance. He staggers, dropping the cloak to the ground, and then hides behind the trunk of a wide tree, peeking to see who it is.

The first person that enters the clearing from where the puppy came from is a girl, leading a horse by its reins. Her hair is long, ashen blonde that looks like melted starlight. She walks into the clearing as if she is in a daze, lightly toeing through the grass towards the riverbank.

She picks up the cloak and smiles, turning to look over her shoulder.

“I have located the cloak, Good Sir!” she exclaims as there is more rustling and out emerges another figure.

Yuuri’s breath traps in his throat, and he feels he is floating.

The Man from the Paintings - from Yuuri’s dreams, his inks and pastels and charcoal pencils - takes the cloak from the girl with a tender smile.

“Thank you,” he says, surveying the riverbank. “Let’s stop for a minute for a break.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments!!


	4. Into the Woods

When Yuuri turned the age of ten, he dreamt about a man he never met.

The visions of the dream were so clear: there was a chill of the air that made itself home in his lungs, there was ice, sleek white snow, and there was the man.

His hair was long and silvery, bellowing lightly in the breeze of Winter’s frost. His outfit was something black with diamonds, looking like a beautiful piece of art in a blank white canvas of snow. Yuuri could only stare at him in amazement, and wonder just who this man was and why did he visit Yuuri in his dream.

When Yuuri awoken, he had a nub of charcoal between his fingers and laying next to his pillow was a drawing of the man in the black and diamond crested suit. It still rests underneath Yuuri’s pillow eight years later, like a well placed secret, a gentle reminder of where the man exists, solely in Yuuri’s dreams.

That is, until now.

Yuuri remains hidden behind the tree’s trunk as the Man from the Paintings crouches by the riverbank, testing the stream of the water as he places his hand inside the current.

“Are you thirsty, Makkachin?” He asks, to which the brown horse the girl leads by the reigns bellows a whinnying neigh. “Eilowny,” the man adds as he cups a bit of water for himself to drink, “you should rest as well.”

The girl yawns to that, and Yuuri supposes she’s the Eilowny the man speaks of.

“But where did that puppy go?” She asks.

“Doesn’t matter. Maybe ran off,” the man surmises. He rises to his feet and takes the reigns, leading his horse - Makkachin, such a strange name for a horse - to the water to drink. Eilowny wanders past them, blinking her eyes around and observing her surroundings. Each step she takes looks as though it were to the tender strings of a violin, dainty and small. Yuuri can feel his heart beat louder and louder as she draws closer and closer to where he hides.

“Oh!” She pipes up in surprise. Yuuri nearly chokes on his breath.

The girl bends down and picks up the puppy into her arms. “There you are! Such a cute little thing. Where is your owner? Are you lost?”

The puppy is friendly this time, and he licks at her chin and her round cheeks. “Victor! Come look! He’s such a sweet little pup!”

 _Victor_.

Yuuri’s nails dig into the bark of the tree, eyes wide and heart swelling in his chest. Victor, Victor, _Victor_.

The man rises to his feet - _Victor_ rises to his feet - and he approaches Eilowny as Makkachin continues to drink. He smiles at the puppy and gives a playful scratch behind the puppy’s floppy ears.

“Mischievous, but cute,” he says, and the puppy yips. He squirms out of Eilowny’s arms and dashes all around Victor’s feet, before he begins to pull at Victor’s pants leg, pulling him _directly_ to the tree where Yuuri hides. Victor laughs, and allows the dog to lead him with an amused smile. Yuuri briefly begins to panic.

He steps backwards, and his heel snaps a twig. The sound seems quiet in the forest, but to Yuuri it roars like deafening thunder.

Victor pauses. “Is someone there?” He asks aloud. The puppy starts barking, as if he were demanding that Yuuri make his presence known.

Yuuri feels his shoulders trembling, his knees beginning to knock together. His hand trails up to his chest to touch at his ring that dangles from the gold chain, and he swallows hard.

Cautiously, he peeks his head out from behind the trunk.

Victor’s eyes follow the sudden movement, and he’s looking at Yuuri. Staring at Yuuri with amazement, with wonder, with surprise that makes Yuuri’s skin flush an embarrassed shade of pink. Yuuri takes one step, then two, then three, inching further and further out from behind the tree until he stands out in the open by the riverbank. His hands nervously begin to wring the black shawl; not knowing what to do, he hides his hands behind his back and does the motion this time hidden. It does little to stave off the anxious tickle in his throat.

Victor gestures for Eilowny to stay back, approaching Yuuri with entranced footsteps.

“Hello,” he greets. His voice is suave and smooth. Yuuri never did imagine a voice for Victor, but finds that this one rings in honeyed tones and sends a wave of chills and heat through his body.

“H-Hello,” Yuuri says to the scuffed toes of his boots.

“Are you from here?”

“Yes. No. I - I live in a tower. I’m, um, I’m not...I wouldn’t _consider_ myself a local. I, um, I-“ Yuuri looks up, and finds that Victor is _too close_.

He steps back with a startled yelp, only realizing one second too late that he is also _too close_ to the river’s edge. He falls back with his weight, grabbing a fist full of Victor’s coat and falling with him into the river with a loud _splash!_

Mortification seeps into Yuuri’s soul the same way that the water seeps into Yuuri’s clothing: very, _very_ quickly.

"Are you alright, Good Sirs?!" Eilowny shouts as Victor makes a feeble attempt to sit up. Yuuri does the same, sputtering and coughing all the while as he pushes his wet bangs out of his face.

"Fine! Just fine!" Victor reassures as Yuuri nearly hacks out his lungs. Victor proceeds to get to his feet, then offers a hand to Yuuri with a smile. "Are you okay?"

Too embarrassed to take the hand being offered - though Yuuri _does_ want to know what the man’s skin feels like under his touch - Yuuri gets to his feet on his own. He adjusts the glasses that are crooked on his face, flecked with water droplets, and reaches behind himself to continue nervously wringing his mother’s-

Yuuri pauses, heart dropping low in his stomach.

He turns, and nearly stumbles in the water’s stream again as he moves, his eyes wide with sudden realization, sudden _horror_.

His mother’s shawl.

It’s gone.

He sees his own shawl caught against the riverbank, but not the black flowing fabric that he only now retrieved. Yuuri feels something in his chest, something awful and burning with pain and causing a grimace to etch out over his lips. Trying to walk with the flow of the current, he wobbles along, one foot in front of the other as his pants continue to be soaked.

A hand rests on Yuuri’s shoulder, halting him in his place.

“The river only gets more treacherous the further down you go,” Victor says, a cautious warning. His eyes are kind, and in this close space, Yuuri sees how blue they are, shiny enough that he can see his own face: bewildered and soaked with water.

“N-No,” Yuuri stammers, looking back to the river. “I - I _can’t_. I can’t leave without that shawl.”

Yuuri’s lips are twisting, emotions bubbling their way to the surface as he grits his teeth and hisses out a breath. His lungs begin to hurt and burn the same way his heart does. His eyes scrunch tight, forcing himself to not drown in Victor’s eyes but be smothered by the memory of his mother, of her cold body, of Leo’s pleas and Gerhardt’s proud smile.

Why did this happen?

Why, why, _why?_

He doesn’t realize it, but Victor’s hand that remains on his shoulder gently begins to lead Yuuri out of the water and back onto the grass of the riverbank. Eilowny stands at Makkachin’s side, big eyes wide with concern as Yuuri staggers and falls to his knees the second he can feel his legs.

Victor crouches down beside Yuuri. “Are you okay?” he asks, moving a hand to rest in the center of Yuuri’s back.

Yuuri shakes his head, digging his fingers into the grass, caking the soft dirt under his nails as he does so.

“That was my mother’s shawl. That was all I had of her. I have to get it back. I have to get it back-“

“You can’t walk through that river like you were doing just now,” Victor says.

Yuuri pulls away from Victor’s touch, standing to his feet. Victor gets to his feet as well, looking at Yuuri with unnecessary concern. “Are you going to be okay?” he asks. Yuuri closes his eyes tight and balls his hands into fists.

He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know if he’s going to be okay about _anything_.

He doesn’t even know why does he want his mother’s shawl so badly as he does in this moment, when just holding it reminds Yuuri that she died in the cold of the night, alone, and it isn’t going to bring her back if he has it now.

He doesn’t know anything. He _hates_ not knowing or understanding what is happening to _his_ life.

“Good Sir,” Yuuri hears Eilowny murmur. And after a few seconds, something heavy is draped over Yuuri’s shoulders, something warm.

His eyes open from the touch, and he sees the red of Victor’s cloak covering his wet figure. Surprisingly, the dampness of Yuuri’s clothing does little to make the cloak itself wet. It’s a beautiful shade of red, bright and daring and demanding all the attention for the person that wears it.

“It might not hold the same sentimental value,” Victor begins, smiling softly, “but it will keep you warm instead of wearing something that’s wet and soggy.”

Part of Yuuri wants to reject the gift. Another part of Yuuri wants to melt in the warmth of the fabric, of the scent of pine needles and berries he knows to be Victor’s.

He settles for not responding at all, casting his eyes towards the ground and pulling the cloak tighter around him.

“Red looks nice on you,” Victor comments aloud. Yuuri’s cheeks tint their own shade of red, the color reaching the tips of his ears.

“If you go in the morning, you should be able to find the cloak at the springs this river empties to,” Eilowny tells Yuuri, hope in her voice and in her smile. “The Good Sir and I passed by it on our journey, and the waters seem to normally go undisturbed.”

The springs. Yuuri’s never traversed this area. He has no idea how he would even reach the springs, or what resides on the trail.

There’s a playful yip, and two little paws push against the backs of Yuuri’s legs. He takes a step into Victor from the impact, and Victor holds his arms open to catch Yuuri with ease, arms going around Yuuri’s waist to hold him firm against the front of his chest.

The puppy scampers around Yuuri and Victor’s feet, tail wagging in joy and ears perking.

Victor smiles at him. “Yours?”

Yuuri shakes his head. “He just won’t stop following me around. I don’t know who he belongs to,” he explains. Eilowny crouches downwards, blinking as the puppy yips and barks and chases its tail.

“...Victor,” she says, sounding amazed.

“What is it?” Victor asks. The girl shakes her head, still staring at the puppy.

“No. That’s his name. Victor.”

“Why name his dog after me?” Victor questions.

“H-He isn’t mine,” Yuuri corrects. For some reason, Victor has yet to release Yuuri from his hold. Victor’s heartbeat is strong against Yuuri’s, a constant _ba-dump! ba-dump!_ that makes Yuuri’s toes curl in his soaked socks.

Eilowny continues to stare at the puppy - Victor apparently - and braces her hands on her knees as the puppy continues to bark.

“...Victor...you...you...” Her eyebrows furrow hard and her tongue pokes out the corner of her lips. Yuuri hasn’t a clue as to what is going on.

“Is she a witch?” he asks in a low whisper.

Victor chuckles. He has a very nice laugh.

“Not at all. Just a Maiden. Their Stories always give them a knack for speaking with animals,” he says, and his gaze is intense as he looks into Yuuri’s eyes. “And you? What is your Story?”

Yuuri can’t seem to find his tongue in his own mouth.

He averts his eyes again, heat crawling beneath his skin. Victor chuckles again, a low and quiet noise that Yuuri doesn’t want to believe is for only his ears, but he still wishes to covet and listen to over and over and _over_ again.

“Victor...you...night...knight? Night...” Eilowny bites her lower lip as the puppy seems to only grow more frantic in his barking, bounding around from left to right.

Victor turns his gaze from Yuuri’s face towards the darkening skies.

“We should be going,” he announces, and finally relinquishes Yuuri of his hold.

It will be a boldface lie if Yuuri says he isn’t saddened by the loss of touch.

Eilowny gets to her feet, leaving the puppy to continue his barking and useless whimpering. “No, I almost have it! Something about you and either _a_ knight or _the_ night,” she says as Victor begins to lead her to Makkachin.

“We don’t have the time to play with his dog. Night is coming and we need to find a spot to rest,” Victor tells her. Yuuri feels his feet locked into place, a hand trailing up to the gold ring on his chain. No, no he _can’t_ go.

“But, Good Sir, there’s something-“

“You want to get married to your beloved, don’t you?” Victor asks her.

She puffs her cheeks indignantly. “Of course! I’ve waited my whole life for it!” she exclaims. Victor pats her head.

“Then get on the horse,” he says with a smile. A heart shaped smile. Just like in Yuuri’s dreams.

Victor boost Eilowny up onto Makkachin first, then looks over to his shoulder at Yuuri still standing stiff along the riverbank. There’s something in Victor’s eyes that looks a bit darker now, darker with something that Yuuri is yet to understand. He hates that there’s so many things he doesn’t _understand_.

“You should head back to your tower. Monsters come out at night,” Victor warns. Yuuri’s breath hiccups in his throat, clenching the ring tightly in his fist. _Wait. Please wait._

Victor leads Makkachin by the reigns, approaching Yuuri with soft eyes. “Will you get there fine? Or, would you need a ride? Makkachin’s a friendly horse,” he reassures.

“No, I-“ Yuuri stars, then bites at his lip.

There’s so many things he wants to say, but there’s so little time to do it, and so little thought on how to say it.

He feels it sitting on his tongue, all the exclamations of surprise at seeing Victor, all the desires to tell Victor that Yuuri has seen him time and time again in his dreams and he doesn’t understand a thing about them. He wants to know Victor’s Story. He wants to know if he has a special spot in Victor’s Story like Victor does in his heart. He wants to know why he feels this way, why he feels so engulfed in the blues of Victor’s eyes and why does he badly want to remain in them instead of the browns of Gerhardt’s.

Yuuri pinches at the ring, and he raises it up for Victor to view.

“Does-“ Yuuri pauses, throat momentarily dry and lips trembling as he speaks, “does this...mean anything to you?”

Victor takes the ring gently in between his own fingers, studying it. There’s something hopeful building in Yuuri’s chest. He watches Victor through the unsure flutter of his eyelashes, while his hands play with the ends of Victor’s red cloak.

Victor smiles. “It looks to me like a wedding ring,” he says to Yuuri. “Are you getting married?”

Yuuri blinks. “I...I suppose I am. I mean, I’m not sure - I -“ he shakes his head, “That’s it? That’s...that’s all you know about it?”

“Am I supposed to know more?” Victor asks, mildly confused.

Yuuri shakes his head again, but there’s a sadder tilt of his head downwards.

“...No, I...I guess not...”

Victor releases the ring. “Who are you marrying? Someone in your Story?”

Yuuri wraps arms around himself. “I...I don’t know.” He doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t understand anything.

Victor hums. “Well, whoever they are, I wish you both the best,” he says, and he hoists himself up onto Makkachin’s back.

Yuuri dumbly nods his head. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what to do.

Eilowny waves. “If you’re ever in Aurelia, do feel free to say hi!” She says, then waves at the puppy. “Goodbye, Victor!”

In response, the puppy begins to paw at Yuuri’s leg and pull at his pants legs.

Yuuri ignores the puppy and clutches tightly to the cloak. “Are you...are you sure about giving this to me?”

Victor smiles, then shrugs. “Like I said, red looks nice on you,” he compliments, and the way he says it, the way his voice sounds so kind, makes Yuuri’s heart ache all the more. “...What’s your name?” Victor then asks.

Yuuri keeps his eyes averted. “...Yuuri...” he says, and his voice barely comes out as a whisper.

“That’s a nice name,” Victor compliments with a smile. “My name is Victor Nikiforov. Maybe we will cross paths with each other again.”

“...If fate allows it,” Yuuri says to himself. Maybe this is all he’ll ever have. Maybe this is all he should be grateful for.

There’s a pause, then laughter. Victor’s laugh, bright and bemused as he grips the reins.

"I don’t wish on fate, just luck,” he says, and from the way his eyes shimmer, Yuuri knows he means it.

Victor snaps the reins and Makkachin gives a loud whinnying neigh, and the horse gallops off with Victor and Eilowny into the shroud of trees and the covering of the forest, till the only sound Yuuri hears is the pitying whine of the puppy at his side and the trickle of the river’s stream.

Yuuri stands there, covered with Victor’s cloak and knee deep in his own thoughts. The skies turn purple above him, and the sun’s gleam through the branches of the trees begins to dim.

He’s still clutching the gold ring in his grasp.

He’s still trying to remember how to breathe.

 

* * *

 

The puppy - who Yuuri decides to rename Vicchan to avoid having to think about _Victor_ \- follows at Yuuri’s heels as he walks through the path in the darkness of night. The red of the cloak on Yuuri’s shoulder is immaculately bright in the darkness, so bright that he hopes he doesn’t become a target for any bandits that lurk in the shadows of the forest.

He thinks as he walks, taking advantage of the quiet that he has gone without for so long. In the silence, he realizes how absolutely _exhausted_ he feels. His legs and his arms are sore and his chest still feels like it’s being weighed down with wet cement. He’s managing. He’s still moving. He’s doing what he can.

But, Yuuri wonders, is this enough?

He hates that he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t _like_ that he doesn’t understand what’s happening to him and _why_ it is. It’s almost been a full day since his mother’s death, and he still isn’t any closer to answering the questions that he has, and only getting more frustrated as more seem to pop up.

He thinks about his Story.

He thinks about how he doesn’t know a thing about his Story, which, is rather odd.

Yuuri remembers how his mother never mentioned anything about Stories or even the Storyteller. He only has a vague concept of what each thing is, having overheard two women discuss such matters on his trip to the market with his mother when he were only six.

‘What is a Story?’ Yuuri asked her as she stirred her pot of stew.

‘Something that gives both peace of mind and intense fear, my dearest,’ she answered.

‘Who is the Storyteller?’ Yuuri then asked.

‘Go and fetch the newts, my dearest,’ she then said, and the conversation was promptly dropped.

He can only piece together what he knows of Stories and the Storyteller, and finds himself puzzled at how minimal those things are in his life when they seem so important to everyone else.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t understand anything.

...Maybe he _should_ go to the Capital, even if it means traveling with Gerhardt. He’s...he’s tired of not understanding. He’s tired of being ignorant of his own life and how it feels like it’s spiraling past his control.

As he reaches the tower’s clearing, Vicchan goes rigid in his spot and starts barking.

“You can’t be doing that if you’re going to stay with me,” Yuuri chides, continuing towards the door. Vicchan begins to pull at Yuuri’s pants leg and Yuuri clicks his tongue. “Stop it!” he says, and scoops the puppy into his arms. “I can’t leave you out here to be some monster’s snack. So come on.”

Vicchan squirms and writhes and barks as Yuuri brings his hand to the tower’s door. It pushes open with unusual ease.

Yuuri carries Vicchan up the spiral staircase, growing even more exhausted as he reaches the tower’s living quarters. The candles are snuffed out; strangely, they do not immediately light themselves on Yuuri’s arrival as they normally do.

Yuuri sets Vicchan down on the hardwood floor, watching as the puppy wanders around and sniffs at everything, before scampering to Yuuri to paw at his leg. Yuuri smiles at the pup, scratching Vicchan behind the ears.

“Come on, you can sleep with me,” he says, and goes to his bedroom. Vicchan follows closely at his heels.

He’ll get some sleep, Yuuri decides. He’ll get sleep and pack his bags first thing in the morning. He need to figure out what all of this means. He needs to know _why_.

That is what Yuuri planned to do.

But the moment he enters his bedroom, he’s met with a hand grabbing him by his throat and someone slamming him against his bedroom wall.

The first thing Yuuri realizes after the throbbing of his head is the pungent scent of alcohol mixed with sweat. And as his vision clears, he sees the messy coif of golden hair, and the darkness in brown eyes belonging to The Hero Gerhardt. Yuuri tries to gasp. He tries to speak. He can’t even make a sound.

“I’ve traveled to many different places,” Gerhardt says, and he’s slurring his words through tightly clenched teeth, “I have saved many different people. I’ve - I’ve had _many_ whores willing to give themselves to me. But of all the people I’ve been in the presence of, of all the crowds that I’ve stood before, I have _never_ been so _humiliated_ when you pulled that shit in the tavern!”

Yuuri’s hands go up to claw at Gerhardt’s hand around his throat, kicking up his feet to break away.

“I promised you freedom from this prison of a tower. I promised you happiness as my husband. You wouldn’t have to worry a single day in your _life_. And you _reject me?_ _**ME?!**_ ” Gerhardt yells. He releases his hold on Yuuri and lets him fall in a crumpled heap on the floor, coughing and sputtering and trying to regain his breath.

Gerhardt stomps over to the opposite wall, to where sketches and paintings of Victor are displayed. "Is this Victor?" he hisses through his teeth, not waiting for a response as he rips the drawings off the wall to tear in half, and the paintings to throw on the ground and smash with his boot. "Is this because of your _precious **Victor?!**_ "

"Stop! _Stop!_ ” Yuuri screams as Gerhardt throws the canvases across the room and crushes Yuuri’s art supplies with the heel of his boot. Yuuri runs at Gerhardt with a fist raised and blindly swings. It connects, Yuuri’s knuckles cracking alongside Gerhardt’s jaw. The other man doesn’t go down. Instead, it only makes him angrier.

He grabs Yuuri’s wrists and tussles with him, sticking his foot between Yuuri’s stance to trip him and knock him to the ground. Gerhardt then straddles Yuuri, putting all of his weight onto him while pinning down his hands as Yuuri kicks and screams.

"You _will_ marry me!" he spits in Yuuri’s face. "I’m the Hero! I’m the one that showed you compassion! You are _mine!_ ”

Gerhardt maneuvers his hands so one holds down Yuuri’s wrists above his head while the other hand wraps at Yuuri’s throat. "Say you will marry me," Gerhardt growls, thumb pressing hard against Yuuri’s windpipe.

"I-" Yuuri tries to gasp in a breath, but it doesn’t help, "I’ll...I’ll marry you."

Gerhardt stares down at Yuuri’s face that begins to grow red. He leans down, easing his grip on Yuuri’s throat.

"Kiss me," he demands. Yuuri’s lips purse tight.

Gerhardt presses his lips against Yuuri’s anyways, forcefully and sloppily. The hand at Yuuri’s throat tightens again when Yuuri does not reciprocate. He wheezes out a gasp, and Gerhardt eagerly lets his tongue slip into Yuuri’s mouth.

Why?

Why?

Yuuri is so tired. He’s so _tired_.

He doesn’t want this.

He’s not going to have this.

He’s not, he’s _not_.

Yuuri’s gasps again from Gerhardt’s hand, and he feels his jaw go rigid and his teeth come down _hard_. The taste of blood immediately begins to fill his mouth, and Gerhardt reels his head back with blood coming from his lips.

He screams, both of his hands flying to his mouth. Yuuri spits out a piece of flesh, of tongue, and jerks his knee upwards into Gerhardt’s groin. He then flips himself onto his knees and makes a scramble to crawl to the doorway.

A hand grabs at his ankle, yanking him back. " _You ssuhid **whore!**_ " Gerhardt garbles.

Yuuri screams, his other foot reeling back to kick Gerhardt in his face. The Hero’s grip on Yuuri loosens and Yuuri gets to his feet, running out the bedroom and to the kitchen.

Yuuri yanks open the drawers and cabinets for the knife, hearing the angry approach of Gerhardt’s boots behind him. There’s a sound of Vicchan’s barks, and Gerhardt screams again. The Hero’s shouts are unintelligible, garbled up with the blood filling Gerhardt’s mouth and his inability to use his severed tongue. Vicchan continues to attack at Gerhardt’s ankle, sinking his teeth into Gerhardt’s flesh.

The knife isn’t in the cupboards. Or it might, but Yuuri is too frazzled and panicked to check through the drawers carefully.

"Mutt!" Gerhardt yells, coming out as ‘muh’, and he violently swings his leg to kick Vicchan off. The puppy scampers, giving a hurried bark before he runs down the spiral staircase. Yuuri abandons the search for the knife and makes a run for it too, but gets grabbed by the collar of the red cloak he wears and yanked back into Gerhardt’s hold.

Gerhardt is saying something, repeatedly over and over, but Yuuri can’t hear him with the blood pounding in his ears and his frantic heart. He kicks and squirms and twists in Gerhardt’s hold.

"Let go of me! Let me _go!_ " Yuuri yells, throwing his head backwards to hit Gerhardt in the face. His vision blurs, and Gerhardt staggers backwards towards the steps in a daze. His arms go slack around Yuuri for merely a second. Yuuri turns quickly in Gerhardt’s grasp.

His hands brace against Gerhardt’s broad chest, and without even thinking, Yuuri pushes.

The resounding shock of Gerhardt’s face is the last thing Yuuri sees of the man, before he watches the Hero tumble down the spiral staircase and disappear into the darkness of the tower.

...

...

...

It is quiet.

Yuuri stands at the top of the staircase, trembling. His mouth still tastes of Gerhardt’s blood, his skin still feels seared by Gerhardt’s touch. He doesn’t move for the longest time, not until Vicchan quietly pads up the stairs and sits at Yuuri’s feet.

The puppy whimpers, rubbing himself against Yuuri’s foot, blinking up at him with sorrowful shiny black eyes. Yuuri eventually reaches down and scoops the puppy into his arms. And with careful trepidation, he descends the staircase.

The scent of blood fills his nose the closer he nears the tower’s bottom, until at last, Yuuri sees the body of The Hero Gerhardt, lying in a pool of his blood and his neck bent back at an awful angle.

Yuuri doesn’t breathe for the span of a minute, and only stares down at the body before him. Vicchan is still in his grasp, looking at Gerhardt as well.

Then, Yuuri gasps, and unintentionally lets out a sob - of relief, of pain, of confusion and despair - in one go.

 

* * *

 

In the darkness of the forest - seconds, minutes, hours after a Hero meets his demise - there is a gentle glow of a lantern.

“There’s monsters in these parts, aren’t there?” Leo’s mother quietly whispers to her husband. The man nods, holding the lantern up to discern the path they should continue to take.

“If we left in daylight, no doubt they’ll try to stop us. By the time they realize we’re gone, we’d be halfway to the Capital,” he tells her. There’s bitterness on his tongue, and he smacks his lips to rid himself of it. “Are you tired, my love? We can rest.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head, “I can’t sleep knowing my baby is taken from me. Who _knows_ what they do in the Capital as punishment. A-And to think he’s trapped in a carriage with that c-crook-“ she pauses to calm herself before she can elicit a sob. Her husband rubs her back gently.

“We’ll get him. We’ll get him back,” he reassures.

“But,” she pauses to wipe at her eyes, “what about...what about the Storyteller? He’ll...we don’t have the gold for his fee...we’ll have to take a Bet.”

Her husband nods his head solemnly. He already knows.

She looks over the wrinkles of her husband’s face, then down to the wrinkles of her hands. She knows deep in her heart they don’t have much longer in this world. Their Stories are almost complete, and they lived such simple ones. She cannot complain, for all she wanted was to see her children grow up bright and healthy, regardless of the Stories they were blessed with.

She knows that when they do reach the Capital, there’s a chance they won’t leave it.

“We have no choice,” he tells her, and wraps his arm around her shoulders. “Come. Let’s hurry and find some shelter from the cold before we free-“

The man’s words die in his throat as he feels himself and his wife grow rigid.

There’s footsteps behind them.

There’s someone else in the dark with them.

“Quickly,” he hisses, and they rush to hide behind the trunk of a large tree, huddling close to better obscure the way their bodies tremble in fear.

In the night’s fog, a figure in red makes their way down the path, swaying with each step. Leo’s father squints his eyes, and although he has trouble seeing from afar without his glasses - especially through this darkness - he can see the shape of a young man’s face, and the downwards slump of his shoulders covered with a bright red cloak.

“It’s that beggar woman’s son,” he whispers to his wife in surprise.

“What is he doing out here?” she asks, watching as he passes by their tree without even glancing in their direction. There’s something off about his face; there’s something empty in his eyes. Clutched against his chest, Leo’s mother can see that the young man is holding a small little pup, and carries a wicker basket of unknown goods on his arm.

“I don’t know, my love,” her husband whispers to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “But, it’s none of our business to see what he does. We have more pressing matters we need to-“

He stops, and a gasp of fear lodges itself in his throat. His wife beside him goes rigid. The young man on the trail freezes in his tracks.

There, deep in the thicket of the woods and shrubbery, a low and threatening growl emerges.

"H-Hello?" the young man calls out, hesitantly stepping backwards. Leo’s father places a hand over his wife’s mouth, huddling closer to further hide themselves behind the greenery and snuffing out the light of his lantern.

It’s quiet for only a minute. Then, there’s another hungry growl that’s even louder, accompanied with the sound of heavy footfalls and branches snapping.

The young man doesn’t wait any longer, and he turns on his heel to break out into a run.

The monster gives a deafening roar, and it feels like the Earth rattles beneath them as a large shadow runs past the couple’s hiding spot, chasing after the bright red cloak until they both disappear into the darkness.

They wait for the longest time, shivering closely together while Leo’s father’s hand still is tightly clamped over his wife’s mouth. It isn’t until she pulls his hand away herself that the couple dare to peek out from their covering.

They’re alone, with only the sounds of the forest keeping them company.

"W-What should we do?" she stammers as her husband helps her to her feet. He strikes another match from his pocket and re-ignites the lantern, while his other hand goes to hold hers.

"We need to find shelter. Carabosse is not much farther. We must hurry."

"But the boy-"

"If he is fortunate enough to have a Hero as his love then...then surely he will not meet a demise at the hands of a beast," her husband reassures, though his voice wavers with uncertainty. He gives her hand a squeeze. "Think about Leo, my love. Think about what _we_ can do."

She looks back down the path where the beggar woman’s son fled, then to her husband and squeezes his hand back.

"...Yes...of course..." she murmurs, and they continue onwards.

 

* * *

 

He runs, he runs, he runs.

Vicchan is held tight in Yuuri’s grasp and whimpering in fear, while the sound of the monster’s growling and footfalls seem to draw closer and closer. There’s no way that Yuuri can outrun it. He _knows_ he can’t. He’s exhausted. He’s hungry and he’s thirsty. He’s confused and he’s lost and he’s _scared_.

He thinks he’s going to die.

Hooking a left, Yuuri jumps over a moss covered log and almost trips over his own two feet. The monster barrels through; Yuuri can hear the log behind him get crushed into pieces. He doesn’t dare to turn and see what the monster looks like. He can tell that it’s large, and it must run on four legs due to its speed. It’s also hungry. _Very hungry_.

Vicchan barks and starts squirming around in Yuuri’s hold again, which at the moment is the _worse_ thing the puppy can do.

"Vicchan, no! Hold still! I’ll drop you!" Yuuri snaps. Vicchan doesn’t listen, and as Yuuri takes a right on the narrow path between two trees, he leaps out of Yuuri’s arms to scamper off into the bushes. "Vicchan!" Yuuri screams, then yells when the monster’s roar rips through the night sky, and he can feel the sting of the monster’s hot breath against his back.

Yuuri makes a run into the bushes as well, holding the red cloak tighter to his body so it doesn’t easily snag on a branch. The monster follows, twigs snapping and angry growling just at the ends of Yuuri’s heels.

There’s unshed tears burning at the corners of Yuuri’s eyes, a grimace on his lips as he feels his body grow heavier and heavier the more he exerts it. He’s so tired. He wants to just _stop_. The wicker basket on his arm bangs and bumps against the trees and bushes with Yuuri’s erratic movements. Some things spill out, though in the dark Yuuri isn’t sure just what.

His heart is beating against his chest while his legs run purely on adrenaline. Yuuri can’t see the moon through the trees. Hell, he can barely see where he’s going as he traipses on through the woods. He doesn’t know if he’s running in a complete circle, or running right back to the village, or maybe even to his tower where Gerhardt’s body still rests untouched after the fall. Yuuri doesn’t know where he’s going. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

He chokes out another gasp. God, he’s going to die. He knows he is.

Yuuri pushes forward anyways, hearing the monster’s growl become more distant as he goes through the bushes and weaves through the thicket of trees. His mouth and throat is painfully dry, and it’s getting harder and harder to see his path the further he goes into the woods.

He listens to his heartbeat - its frantic and scared thump in his chest - and he thinks about his mother.

 _Your heart is so special, my dearest_ , she told him once when he was five, on a night where the rain poured outside the tower and thunder boomed in the dark skies. _Listen to it. It will always tell you the right answer._

Yuuri doesn’t know where to go. He doesn’t know if there’s any point to continue.

Yet...he keeps moving. He keeps clutching to the front of his shirt, and he listens to his heart.

He runs, he runs, he runs.

...

...

...

There’s a light.

It’s faint and the glow is small, but there is a light.

Yuuri runs to it.

He breaks out into the clearing and stumbles over his feet as he crawls towards the light, towards a small burning fire of a campsite. Stationed close, there is a wagon adorned with trinkets and colorful bobbles. A merchant’s perhaps, though there is no person in sight.

Vicchan is sitting by the fire, tail wagging. He yips and runs to Yuuri, pulling him by the cuff of his pants towards the wagon.

Yuuri falls to his knees and grabs the puppy into his arms. "You stupid dog," he breathes with exhaustion, hugging Vicchan tight. Vicchan licks at Yuuri’s face. The insult goes ignored.

Yuuri looks over his shoulder at the woods he came from, expecting for the monster to emerge any second.

It’s a strain to see, but when he squints, he does see a pair of glowing yellow eyes watching him from the dark, but not daring to come any closer.

Vicchan whimpers against Yuuri’s arm, and Yuuri glances down to see the puppy raising up a limp paw.

"Did you hurt yourself?" Yuuri asks with minor worry, turning the paw over between his fingers. Though it is faint, Yuuri does see what appears to be a burn mark in the pads of Vicchan’s paw, as though the puppy ran through a line of fire.

Vicchan curls himself up against Yuuri, shivering from the cold. Yuuri does his best to wrap the puppy up in the red cloak, carrying him in his arms as Yuuri makes his way towards the wagon.

“Hello?” he calls, hoisting himself up onto its wooden steps to peer inside. He spots packages of dried fruit, nuts and meat, two pallets of cloth blankets to make a bed, some pieces of silverware and dagger sheaths, but not a single living soul.

Yuuri lets himself inside, tiptoeing around the crates of food and valuables. His mouth waters at the sight of some dried beef and a fresh loaf of banana bread. When he glances into his wicker basket, he finds the packed food items were spilled out of the basket in his retreat, with only his sketchbook and a small bag of coins remaining.

Yuuri sets Vicchan down and gets the sack of gold coins. Biting at his lower lip, he reaches first for a bag of raw peanuts and tastes one. Finding it to be unsalted, he offers a piece to Vicchan.

The puppy sniffs at it, then eats it from Yuuri’s fingers. Yuuri watches Vicchan and gauges his reaction to the food before he offers another piece. Then, for himself, he takes half of the banana bread, before leaving four gold coins in its place. He only hopes that will be enough to replace it; if it’s to be sold eventually, there shouldn’t be any harm.

Vicchan jumps up into the pallets of bedding and Yuuri clicks his tongue.

"No, we can’t sleep there," Yuuri scolds, sitting down to get the puppy into his lap with one hand while holding onto his piece of bread. The bedding is soft, composed of different fabrics and silk that make Yuuri want to go slack against. Vicchan whines, flopping onto his side to wriggle about in the sheets, before curling up into a ball beside Yuuri’s hip.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Yuuri says through a yawn. His body feels too heavy to even move, too sore and exhausted to even _think_ about moving from this comfortable and warm spot. Outside the wagon, he hears the breeze of the night move through the branches of the trees. He isn’t sure if the beast is still lurking around, waiting for a moment to strike. He might be even worse just sitting here when he should be putting space between them, and he heading towards...wherever he can go.

Where can he go from here anyways?

Yuuri feels his body tip sideways, his cheek finding the wrinkles of cotton and fresh linen. Vicchan stretches out against Yuuri’s stomach before he resumes to snooze.

 _Just a little while_ , Yuuri thinks, taking just a bit of banana bread to eat for the moment so his stomach doesn’t feel so empty. His lips are still dry, and his throat feels a little parched, but he doesn’t see any water containers he can ‘purchase’. He’ll have to look for water in the morning. For now, it won’t hurt if he just...rests his eyes for a moment. He’ll give the merchant all the compensation for so rudely invading their wagon. He’ll give them all the gold he has if he needs to.

Just...a moment...that’s all he needs.

 

* * *

 

...

...

...

“Hmm.”

“What do you think, Boss?”

Daylight encroaches, the skies slowly taking a lighter shade of purple and the stars becoming less and less visible as the sun outshines them. The campsite fire has long since been snuffed out, and the merchant’s bounty of goods from the night’s gathering is stationed outside the wagon to be loaded.

This is where Minako Okukawa comes to her predicament.

“What’s he look like to you?” she asks with a hand to her chin, hip cocked to the side. Her traveling companion gives a small shrug, fishing for a stick of tobacco from the pockets of her trousers.

“Doesn’t look like a threat. He left some gold where he stole our bread and peanuts, so he’s honest at least,” the other woman says. There’s slight dredges of sleep in her words and in the way that she rubs at the corners of her eyes. Coming up short with her cigarette, she sighs and squats beside the wagon, squinting up at the older woman. “We don’t really have time to get into a fight anyways. We were supposed to be in Aurelia two hours ago.”

“Would have been there earlier if we didn’t have to get stopped by that monster,” Minako mutters under her breath, crossing her arms. “No doubt he must have been hiding from it as well.”

Turning a gaze to the outer limits of their campsite, she sees where the young man carelessly traipsed over her circle of rowan spread around the ground. Though she does see a noticeable spot in the circle where it appears to be singed, if it was the boy’s doing, he wouldn’t have even been able to make his way into their wagon. Something else must have crossed paths of their campsite; whatever it was, it made off with minimal damage.

Minako sighs. “He shouldn’t be any trouble. We’ll load up what we got and head off to Aurelia like we planned. When he wakes up, we figure out what he wants and sell it to him, and go,” she says.

The other woman nods her head in understanding, rising to her feet to stretch her arms above her head. “Want me to wake him?” she asks

Minako shakes her head, a sly little grin on her lips. “Let him sleep. We’ll charge him for shacking up in our wagon too,” she says nonchalantly, before she turns her gaze to face the morning sunrise. “Let’s get a few more things for breakfast.”

“For him and his mutt too?” the other woman asks with a groan. Minako gives a chuckle under her breath.

“It’s cute, a boy and his dog. Didn’t you have pets?” Minako asks.

The other woman looks towards the ground, furrowing her eyebrows with a frown on her lips.

“I can’t remember much before the Raid,” she whispers. Minako nods her head, understanding.

Changing the subject, Minako reaches over to give the woman’s blond and brown hair a playful little ruffle. “Do you want to keep watch so if he turns out to be some lowlife scum, he doesn’t make off with our things?” she asks.

The other woman gives a scoff, but smirks. “He’s sleeping like a rock in my bed, so I doubt he’s going anyplace soon.”

Minako throws her arm around the woman’s shoulders, flashing a grin. ”Alright then, Mari. Let’s get some food for us and Sleeping Beauty in there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t expecting that to happen with Gerhardt. But like the witch said, many possibilities to every outcome and we’ve only saw one. Also! Going to be going on a mini vacation so slight delay in next chapter!


	5. Poor Unfortunate Souls

The Capital represents everything Otabek Altin abhors, and it greets him in the form of a Hero’s bright, white smile.

"More troublemakers?" the Hero asks the Royal Guard that yanks Otabek and Leo out of the carriage viciously by the chains. They’re in a courtyard, just within the Golden Palace’s walls, hidden from the eyes of the villagers but made a spectacle for the servants and bourgeoisie that flock from all around.

They look like dolls, the entire lot. Otabek and Leo gets shuffled past faces painted with white powder and rouge lips, winged eyeliner and extravagant up-dos. Their clothing is immaculate, made of such fine silk dyed in vibrant colors compared to the bland peasant clothing Otabek has on. It’s hard not to feel lesser about oneself standing amongst such people, but perhaps that is the point.

"Take them to the Storyteller, Leroy," the Royal Guard grunts, shoving the two of them towards the Hero. The other man catches them by their shoulders, reaching down to grab hold of their chains.

"Right! Come on, you two," the Hero says, pulling them along with a gentle yank like one would lead a dog.

Leo struggles like he's been doing for the entire time they've been shackled together. It only puts more of a strain on Otabek’s wrist with each one of Leo’s unpredictable movements. It only makes the elite of the Capital that watches them now smile with a smug and righteous satisfaction.

The Hero - Leroy, Otabek presumes - leads them out from the courtyard into a hallway adorned with golden statues pressed against its walls, with a pathway they walk upon embedded with pieces of silver and copper. Leroy then leads them up a flight of stairs and a narrow passageway, keeping any and all conversation minimal.

"What’d you two do?" Leroy asks without turning to look over his shoulder as they enter into another stairwell that takes them deeper into the Castle’s quarters.

"We didn’t do anything," Leo responds. He sounds exhausted, like he’s said the phrase too many times. Otabek thinks it might have been hundreds, thousands of times.

Leroy snorts. "They all say that," he says, and they keep walking.

They soon reach a set of large wooden doors that stretch upwards to the glimmering chandeliers above their heads. As Leroy opens them, Otabek feels a sensation of cold air wash over him and chill him to the bone.

There’s such a stark contrast to the Storyteller’s room compared to the entirety of the Palace. The walls are not of honeyed gold, but look as though they were scorched by an angry fire, the walls and floors blackened. There’s a stench in the air that chokes Otabek’s lungs, pungent, like death and rot has made itself home in the dark alcoves above. Light is almost nonexistent, with the only sources coming from lit torches on opposing walls.

There, sitting in the middle atop a throne that looks as though it were crafted with tarnished gold, is the Storyteller himself.

The Storyteller’s eyes rest upon them as the three approach, blood red and filled with slight agitation.

“What is this?” the Storyteller says in his gravely baritone, not daring to stir from his place upon his throne.

“Troublemakers, My Lord. From some tiny village east of our Capital,” Leroy explains.

The Storyteller clicks his tongue, rising to his feet. His clothing hangs from his frame, and even in the dim lighting of the hall, Otabek sees the face of the Storyteller appears more gauntly and pale.

“I asked not to be bothered with such frivolous things,” the Storyteller spits, waving his hand in a shooing motion. “Deal with them yourself. I’m sure your competency won’t fail you for such a simple task.”

Leroy smiles. It doesn’t quite look like it belongs on his face.

“Yes, My Lord. I will take care of things,” he says with an overenthusiastic salute and a stupid hand gesture.

The Storyteller does not react to it, and he lounges back against the velvet cushion of his throne, bringing a bony hand against the side of his temple.

It seems that is all that is to be done, since once again Leroy jostles Otabek and Leo’s chains, and begins to steer them out of the Storyteller’s quarters the way a sheepdog herds its sheep.

Otabek spares a glance over his shoulder at the Storyteller just before the doors close shut.

The Storyteller has a hand clutched to his chest where his heart should be, and with the back of his other hand, wipes his lips so they smear red with fresh blood.

 

* * *

 

Meanwhile, further further further away, just as the sun continues to find its place in the sky, Yuuri awakens from his slumber with a crate banging up against the side of his skull.

He grunts through tightly clenched teeth, bringing a hand to his head as he sits up in the pallet of blankets and fabric.

“So,” a voice says snidely, “you’re _finally_ awake.”

Yuuri struggles to clear his vision by squinting, realizing few seconds later that his body is bumping along with the movement of the wagon and its contents. There’s a woman sitting across from him, staring at him with a raise of one of her eyebrows, and lightly rubbing Vicchan’s back as he sits perched on her thigh.

Yuuri goes rigid, mouth fallen open but no excuse coming from his lips. The woman raises her hand to keep it from coming.

“Look, since you paid for the food you took, we’re not mad. But just so you know, you’re not off the hook for breaking into our wagon and sleeping in my bed,” she tells him, a lazy drawl in her voice.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri apologizes, head bowed immediately.

“It was the monster, wasn’t it?” she asks, and she doesn’t sound as stern as she did moments ago. There’s a tired smile to her lips, and for some reason, Yuuri finds familiarity with it, a relaxation that eases the tension from his shoulders in gentle waves.

“Yes,” he answers. The woman nods her head.

“Monsters are crawling all over these parts. It’s better to do your traveling during the day, unless you have a way to protect yourself,” she scolds, then raises her nose at Yuuri. “ _Do_ you have a way to protect yourself?”

Yuuri shakes his head. “No. I...I don’t have anything,” he confesses, curling his hands around his knees.

“You have this,” she says, and she reaches over to something resting precariously atop a crate of oils and vials. When she raises it, Yuuri sees that it is his sketchbook, flipped open to one of his many drawings of Victor. He flushes scarlet in an instant.

The woman smiles. “Your lover?” she inquires. Yuuri adamantly shakes his head ‘no’, and he makes a scramble for the sketchbook to clutch against his chest.

“N-No! He’s - he’s just...” Yuuri looks upon the image of Victor in charcoal, dashingly brave and smiling with a shimmer in his eyes. Sadness weighs down Yuuri’s shoulders as he sighs. “He’s...just no one. Just somebody in a dream I had.”

“Is that so?” she says, crossing her arms. “What’s your name?”

“...Yuuri...”

“I’m Mari,” she says, holding her hand out for Yuuri to shake. He does, and he takes a moment to glance around at his surroundings, to register that the wagon he’s sitting in is slowly meandering down a path.

“Where are you going?” he asks, rather than ‘where are you taking me?’. Mari gives the scruff of Vicchan’s neck a gentle scratch.

“Aurelia. We have business selling some goods. The Hawker apparently has new talent, so people will be in the streets in droves to see,” she responds. And there are so many things in those three statements that Yuuri wants to ask questions about that he doesn’t even know where to start.

But a different voice this time intrudes into their conversation, floating in from the wagon’s opening.

“Is the Kid awake?!” the voice questions.

“Yeah, Boss,” Mari responds back just as loudly, and the wagon rolls to a jarring halt. Yuuri jerks at the sudden stop, staggering as he gets pulled up to his feet by Mari’s firm but helping hand.

“Come on,” she says, and she exits first with Vicchan in the crook of her right arm while leading Yuuri out with her left hand, out of the wagon and into the bright sunlight.

The scenery is different, different from anything Yuuri’s witnessed before. There’s no trees or forest around them, only the blue sky and tall stalks of sunflowers that have their yellow petals fanned out to greet passing travelers. The road they’re on is weathered down from wheels and rain and horse hooves that treaded on it, a light brown color that looks like clay instead of the dark rich Earth soil Yuuri remembers in the forests by his tower.

Another woman makes her presence known by hopping from the front of the wagon where one would be seated to guide the horses. To Yuuri’s slight confusion, there is nothing up front that was pulling the wagon in the first place.

“Alright, Kid,” the woman starts with a slightly harsher tone than Mari’s, “what’s your Story and what were you doing hiding in our wagon?”

Yuuri looks to Mari with slight confusion in his eyes. When he sees that the other woman isn’t going to speak up on his behalf, he twiddles his thumbs behind his back.

“I was hiding from the monster,” Yuuri explains. The other woman places her hands on her hips.

“I figured that. So why would some kid be out wandering the forest at night _knowing_ there are monsters lurking around? What’s your Story?” she asks again.

Yuuri bites his lower lip. “I don’t...I don’t have one.”

Silence.

The women exchange looks with each other, wholly filled with disbelief but also with flickers of confusion and doubt. The light breeze that ghosts over Yuuri’s skin carries with it a scent of sunflowers. He breathes it in, exhales it out slowly with a lonesome sigh. He’s long gone from his tower.

"How do you not have a Story?" the woman finally asks him after the longest pause. Yuuri shrugs his shoulders.

“I just...I don’t know,” Yuuri confesses, and he _hates_ it. “I don’t know if I have a Story, or if I was told my Story and I forgot it, or what is supposed to happen in my Story if I _do_ have it. I...I don’t know.”

The sun is bright when he turns his face up towards the sky, his eyes squinting at the shine. “I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m going to do, but I just want answers.”

Another pause of silence, but it lasts shorter than the previous bout.

“How much money do you got?” the other woman ask. Yuuri shrugs.

“Just an ounce of gold, no more than forty. My mother didn’t have much wealth stowed away in our tower,” Yuuri answers. The woman approaches him with confidence in her step, and reaches out to lightly pinch at the fabric of the red cloak that is still draped over his shoulders.

“This looks rather nice,” she muses aloud. Yuuri turns away from her touch.

“It was a gift,” he explains quickly. The woman hums.

“An ounce of gold won’t be enough to see the Storyteller. And if you really have no less than forty pieces, you’ll burn it up in buying food and shelter on the journey to the Capital. Do you work?”

“He draws,” Mari finally speaks. The other woman doesn’t seem impressed.

“Anything else?” she asks, looking Yuuri up from head to toe. “Do you dance? Sing? Fight?”

“...Will that let me see the Storyteller if I did knew how to do those things?” Yuuri inquires with a confused bat of his eyelashes. The woman clicks her tongue, but she’s beginning to smile.

“You’re kind of weird, Kid. I like that.”

“...Thank you?”

The woman laughs. She walks over and throws her arm around Yuuri’s shoulders, hugging him to her side. “Well I _was_ going to charge you for the trip. But seeing as though I’ll be robbing you of all your money, it’ll be a free of charge trip to Aurelia,” she explains with a toothy grin. “But you’re on your own from there. Aurelians like weird shit, so I’m sure someone will be pleased to help you once they hear your Story, or lack thereof.”

Yuuri’s not sure how to process that, but he also knows that he’ll be stuck in the middle of nowhere if he turns down the offer.

And, he thinks about Victor. He thinks about that Maiden girl with Victor and her cheerful smile. _If you’re ever in Aurelia, do say hi!_

Yuuri’s hand absently raises to trace a gentle touch against the hem of the cloak’s collar. With his other hand, he draws it into a determined fist.

“I’ll go,” he says, averting his eyes. “I’m sorry for intruding on your trip like this and becoming such a burden. I’ll repay you back somehow-“

The woman waves his words away like they’re an incessant little fly. “It’s not any trouble. We’re going to Aurelia anyways, and once we drop you off, we just go our separate ways. Besides, like I said-“ and she gives Yuuri’s hair a playful little ruffle, “-you’re weird. I like weird.”

A small smile manages to creep onto Yuuri’s lips, before it dissolves away as he yawns.

“Let’s take a quick break here,” the woman tells Mari, clapping her hand on Yuuri’s shoulder. “I’m Minako Okukawa, by the way. Mari over there is my apprentice. And you?”

“It’s Yuuri,” he answers, shoulders a little tense with buzzing nerves.

“You got a last name to go with that ‘Yuuri’?”

“...No.”

Minako snorts. “Weird,” she says with a laugh, turning towards the wagon as Mari climbs inside of it with Vicchan. “Come help unload some food. We’ll have a picnic right here.”

And with nerves still a buzz beneath his skin, warmth flourishing in his cheeks, Yuuri follows.

 

* * *

 

The sun sets early. Nightfall creeps its way across the sky and covers everything in darkness.

Yet, in the Capital, everything glows like a golden dream.

“How long are we going to be here?” Leo asks Otabek. He’s standing on the wooden bench, it barely withstanding the extra weight as Leo does his best to peer out of the tiny window of their shared cell. His face is blanketed in the glow of the Capital’s ethereal light. His eyes shimmer even though they’re brimming on the edge of hopelessness.

Otabek is in the corner, in the dark curled up with his knees to his chest.

“Don’t know. Whenever the Storyteller figures out our punishment, I guess,” he mutters under his breath.

Otabek has a good imagination. He’s been flung passive threats of the Storyteller punishing the wrongdoings he never committed by the villagers back home, so he often spent his time in the village imagining what it would have been like if he were someone else.

He imagined he had a family that loved him. He imagined he lived in a modest little cottage instead of hopping from alley to alley to sleep for the night. He imagined he had someone that was his, and that he was someone else’s.

He imagined being happy.

But now, Otabek can’t picture what is to be his punishment. He imagines the Storyteller’s punishments to be unimaginable. He thinks they are something that is unthinkable.

Leo hops down from the bench and begins to pace around the cell. He’s been doing that for the past two days: sleeping, staring out the window, and pacing. Leroy visits their cell with their meals at dawn and dusk with leftovers from breakfast and dinner the Storyteller didn’t feel like finishing. Leo never touches them. He just paces more.

“The Storyteller will see for himself we didn’t do anything,” Leo says aloud, though Otabek isn’t sure if Leo’s speaking to him, or if he’s rambling to himself. “He’ll see we didn’t touch her. He’ll see we’re innocent and that it’s all a big lie. We’ll be fine. The Storyteller doesn’t make mistakes.”

Otabek says nothing to that.

Leo paces and paces and paces around, until he grows weary and takes a knee in the bundle of hay strewn about on the ground as a makeshift bed.

“I’m just going to shut my eyes for a bit,” Leo tells Otabek. Otabek grunts as a response.

It’s quiet in the cell; even though the glow of the Capital is obnoxiously bright through the small window, the city outside is not bustling with life. Wrapping arms around himself, Otabek tries to close his eyes as well, but he doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t dream.

Seconds pass.

Minutes.

Hours.

Another day.

...

...

...

"Wake up! Wake up!"

Leroy’s voice echoes rudely into their cell, startling Otabek from his sleep and causing Leo to stir in his bed of hay. The Hero stands in the open doorway with chains in his fist and nothing to eat.

The morning sunlight through the small window creates dazzling glints off the shine of Leroy’s armor. He looks like he is a piece of living treasure. How Leroy proudly holds his chin up, Otabek thinks the man believes he truly is.

"Come on, you," he says to Leo. "People are here saying they want to prove your innocence."

Leo staggers to his feet. "People?"

"Some old couple. Come on," Leroy says with a jingle of the chains. Leo gives a wide-eyed blink, before he turns to Otabek still sitting on the ground.

"We’re both innocent," Leo retorts. "Neither of us killed her!"

"They’re asking for _you_ , not for him. We can’t keep the Storyteller waiting, so just-" Leroy gives another jingle of his chains, but Leo doesn’t budge.

"What, you scared of the Storyteller?" Otabek questions. Leroy laughs. It sounds rather shaky on the end.

" _Me?_ Afraid of the Storyteller? I’m a Hero! I’m not afraid of the Storyteller! Just the thought is laughable!"

Otabek’s been watching Leroy for a while. It’s hard not to look at the other man when he’s constantly forcing himself in front of Otabek with a beaming smile and a lecture about moral responsibility as Good Citizens of the Capital.

Leroy always looks at someone head-on when he speaks, with those brilliant blue eyes that are proud and valiant. Now as he speaks, his eyes flicker all around, to Otabek, to Leo, to the chains, to the morning sunlight.

He’s lying.

"I won’t go unless you bring him too," Leo protests, hands balled into fists. "The Storyteller will see that we are _both_ innocent! He’ll see who the true killer really is!”

Otabek rises to his feet as well, still watching the nervous flicker of Leroy’s eyes. Offering his wrists forward, he grunts, “I need to use the restroom anyways.”

Leroy does a sidestep, before he gives this long suffering sigh and shakes his head.

Slapping the cuffs on both Leo and Otabek’s wrist, Leroy gives the chain a light tug. His smile is big and the corners have a nervous twitch to them. Otabek can’t fathom just what is happening to the Storyteller to put the Hero on the edge.

“Fine then. But be on your best behavior! Don’t give the Storyteller any more trouble than necessary, understand?” he demands with a haughty puff of his chest. Otabek doesn’t bother with a response, but out of the corner of his eye, he sees Leo give him a hopeful smile.

Leroy takes them out of the cell and through the labyrinth of corridors that takes them to the main passageway of the Golden Palace. The morning sun greets them there, a larger and brighter stream of light shining down into their eyes as they enter the courtyard and continue forward towards the visitation hall.

There’s fewer of the aristocrats lingering in the garden at this time of the hour. They give blank stares as Otabek and Leo pass with Leroy, eerily still. Otabek doesn’t have time to think much about them, or to care what they think about _him_ , when Leroy pushes open the doors to the visitation hall and a cry is heard.

“Leo!” an elderly woman sobs, surrounded by the Royal Guard. Beside her is an equally old man, looking quite weary and exhausted from possibly a long travel.

Beside Otabek, Leo goes rigid with shock.

“M-Mama! Papa! W-What are you doing here?!”

“We’re here to help you! We’re bringing you home!” she explains, blowing her nose into a handkerchief partially soiled with dirt. She turns to one of the Royal Guards that flank her right, holding her handkerchief against her bosom. “Please! Please let me go and hold my child!”

“The Storyteller has not yet arrived. You stay where we tell you to stay,” the Royal Guard growls out, arms crossed over his chest, eyes blinking hard to stay awake amid the morning’s yellow rays brightening the hall.

Leo decides to make the step towards his family first, but Leroy holds his arm out to stop him. He gives a shake of his head, and now Otabek _knows_ something is wrong by the way he sees a small bead of sweat roll down the side of Leroy’s face.

Leroy smiles, and its fake. “Just...wait. The Storyteller will be here and all your questions are going to be answered!” Leroy boasts.

Leo grits his teeth and he balls his fists, but with a worried glance towards his parents, he does as he’s told.

For what feels like a long stretch of time, they stand in wait.

Then, the shadows of the hall pull themselves towards the center of the floor, melting into a black, putrid sludge that bubbles up and spreads towards their feet. The golden sunlight that streams through the window fades away as the dark sludge rushes up the walls towards the alcoves above, coating everything in darkness till there isn’t even a sliver of light.

Otabek hears Leo’s mother shout in surprise. He hears the nervous rattle of Leo’s chains at his side.

“What is this nonsense?” the Storyteller’s voice appears in the dark, though Otabek cannot see the man anywhere; hell, he can’t even see two inches in front of his own face. “Leroy,” the voice continues, angry, “I thought I told you to handle this.”

“Sir,” Leroy’s voice starts, an embarrassing squeak of nerves preceding the proud tone of his voice, “This prisoner’s family wishes to prove his innocence. I didn’t...I didn’t want to put forth an execution until they spoke.”

There’s quiet.

“And how will they prove his innocence? Did you take their fee?” the Storyteller asks. There’s an unsure rattling of the chains.

“...No, Sir. They barely have enough gold to buy a loaf of bread from the Capital’s bakery,” Leroy admits.

It seems as though the entire hall gives an irate rumble, the floor shifting beneath the sole of Otabek’s boots, and the chandeliers - newly blackened and appearing like daggers hanging from the ceiling - rattle as the Storyteller gives a distasteful sigh.

“Foolish boy,” the Storyteller spits. “If you should bother me one more time, then you will-“

“W-We wish to make a Bet, My Lord!” a voice shouts in the darkness. It’s the old man. It’s Leo’s father.

“S-Sir!” Leroy interjects. “These people are elderly. It will do you no good for a Bet!”

The hall rumbles again, and Otabek can hear footsteps approaching, heavy and foreboding.

A figure appears in the darkness, its features indistinct but its stature terrifyingly large.

“A Bet, you say?” the figure says with the Storyteller’s voice, approaching towards where Leo’s parents and the Royal Guard stand. The darkness lessens - or maybe Otabek’s eyes finally have adjusted themselves to see. Leo’s parents cower on the ground, heads bowed and palms splayed against the dark ooze that covers the floor. The Royal Guard moved in the dark, standing further off to the side, watching the scene unfold with passive expressions.

“Y-Yes, My Lord! We wish to make a Bet for our son’s innocence!” Leo’s father shouts, not daring to look at the figure that looms over him and his wife.

“Sir, there is no point in taking a Bet from this man when he surely will not have enough to-“

“Leroy,” the figure speaks, and it turns its head so Otabek can see the shine of blood red eyes, “if you do not hold your tongue, then I will gladly cut it out and force you to hold it.”

There’s a sharp hiss of air at Otabek’s side, but no verbal response.

The figure sets its eyes on the trembling figures at its feet. “But alas, the boy is right. Your Stories are nearly up; I can see it in the lines of your hands that any pages you have to sacrifice will be few and not worth my precious time.”

“P-Please!” Leo’s mother cries. “We _know_ our son is innocent! You can take the rest of our lives if it will mean he can go home safe and sound!”

There’s a sudden sharp pull of the chains, Otabek lurching forward with the tug.

“W-Wait! What are you doing?! You can’t!” Leo shouts.

“Whatever time we have left,” Leo’s mother continues, and she dares to raise her head and look up at the figure, into its blood red eyes, “W-Whatever time that we have left, we Bet. For our son’s freedom. Please, accept it!”

“Mama! Don’t!” Leo shouts, and he darts forward with Otabek reluctantly in tow. A cold gush of wind from the right appears from nowhere, and it trips Otabek so he falls onto the ground and brings Leo down with him. Otabek struggles to get to his feet, but it feels as though something is pushing down on him, as if gravity itself is working to crush him against the floor.

“You have a Bet,” the figure says, and it breathes in deep.

The darkness begins to dissipate and melt away, towards the figure that now begins to take a definite shape: long limbs that shortly get hidden beneath a cloak of the stars, the face angling itself sharp and elegant, the blood red eyes regaining a human-like shimmer, and the shadow taking on a shade of pale white skin and wiry hair.

The Storyteller now stands before Leo’s parents, his tome in his thin hands. “Speak your names, and we shall begin.”

Leo is struggling at Otabek’s side, restricted in movements as Otabek is.

The couple link their hands, and their trembles cease with sudden resolve, pure acceptance.

“Maria and Alfonso de la Iglesia,” Leo’s mother breathes, and Otabek is blinded by sudden light.

He turns away, eyes scrunching tight as he hears the crackles of the Storyteller’s magic like the hearth of a firepit. He hears children laughing, he smells the dirt and hay and manure of stables, and he feels the scorching heat of a flame just at his fingertips.

Otabek takes a peek, teeth gritting as he draws his fingers back to form fists and takes in his surroundings.

He sees the familiar images of a Story, but doubled and copied. He sees two of the images of rowdy children playing in a dirt yard with sticks, while from a distance a young couple watches over with adoration. The children grow, they age, the sticks morphing into swords. The couple continues to watch over them, older too, but now their eyes have a dimness to them.

“My family,” Otabek hears Leo breathe in shock, and he angles his head to see Leo looking at the images with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. His eyes then move downwards, and he shouts, “Mama! Papa!”

Otabek looks too, and he sees two figures that remind him of the shadow that stood previously before them. But these two figures are smaller, hunched over the way that Leo’s parents were, and are engulfed in a sparkling bright light.

“They can’t hear you,” Leroy’s voice pipes from behind them. He moves to stand at Otabek’s right, his grip on their chains loose now that they’re trapped against the floor.

“What’s happening?! What’s happening to them?!” Leo shouts. The Storyteller doesn’t answer, walking around the space provided as he observes the events, the pages of Maria and Alfonso de la Iglesia’s Story.

“They’re alright for now, don’t worry.” It’s hard to see the face that Leroy is making, but the quiet tone of voice puts an unsettling edge in Otabek’s spine.

The answer is not good enough for Leo, and he continues to helplessly struggle on the ground, repeatedly shouting for his parents and receiving zero response from the glowing figures.

Otabek remains still. He observes the footfalls of the Storyteller, notices how invigorating the Storyteller’s walk is in comparison to the tired and weary figure in the throne room. There’s a brightness that glows beneath his skin, though it looks as though a hellish fire is burning from within him rather than the heavenly glow that settles around them.

Eventually, the Storyteller halts his pacing. He makes a distasteful click of his tongue.

“Only a total of thirty years left to offer,” the Storyteller says, placing the flat of his palm against the pages of his tome. “But, I suppose it will have to do.”

He drags his hand from the top of the page to the bottom slowly, and the images that float around them and above their heads pull towards the book as though they were being sucked down a drain. As he does this, the glowing figures grow brighter, brighter, _brighter_.

Leo’s screams start growing frantic. He starts furiously tussling and thrashing, the chains tearing roughly into Otabek’s skin as a result.

“Stop! _Stop_!” Leo cries. The Storyteller ignores him, and raises his hand into the air as the last of the images disappear. With that, he slams the tome shut.

The glowing figures explode in a violent burst of light.

Whatever screams that Leo had at the tip of his tongue now die in a horrified noise that wheezes from the back of his throat. At Otabek’s side, Leroy sighs.

The Storyteller takes in a deep breath, sounding refreshed.

“What are the charges?” he asks aloud.

“Murder, My Lord,” a Royal Guard speaks with a dispassionate tone. “A beggar woman slaughtered just before she was to return to her home.”

The Storyteller hums, though it’s with a tone that doesn’t incline he cares.

He approaches Leo and Otabek, his cloak furling to revealing a body that is full and healthy with revived youth. The wrinkles of the Storyteller’s hands and face are gone, and he smiles down at Leo and Otabek with thin, red-smeared lip.

“The Delinquent does not surprise me,” the Storyteller says with a pointed look towards Otabek, before he turns to Leo. “But a Stable Boy? I remember your Story from your parents. A child that was supposed to give them piece of mind, not to stray and go off seeking glory and trouble like his siblings that fought monsters before him.”

The Storyteller steeps down, voice taking a venomous note. “Perhaps this punishment will teach you will only hurt those you love if you do not learn to stay in your place,” he whispers, low and threatening.

Leo hisses in a sharp take of air, tears burning at the corners of his eyes.

“We didn’t kill her!” he shouts. “She - she was killed by that Hero! He set us up to kill her and-“

“That’s a rather bold and foolish accusation. A Hero’s words are worth more than a Stable Boy’s.” The Storyteller chuckles, turning to look to Leroy. “Who is the Hero that arrested these two?”

“Gerhardt, Sir,” Leroy answers.

“And why is he not here to speak for himself?”

“...He hasn’t returned to the Capital since he left days ago, Sir,” Leroy confesses. The Storyteller frowns.

“What do you mean?” he questions, turning to the Royal Guard next. There’s an expression that finally flashes onto their faces, one that has fear in their eyes and anxiety at the corners of their twisting mouths.

“W-We were told that he would be arriving shortly after the prisoners were jailed. He and the beggar woman’s son he would marry,” one explains with a tremble in his voice.

The Storyteller turns back to Leo and Otabek, a placid smile coming to his lips.

“No matter. We will continue without his testimony. I shall see for myself the crime that you two committed,” he says, withdrawing from his cloak a thin needle pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

The Storyteller crouches down in front of Leo. “We shall verify your innocence since it was your parent’s last wish,” he says, presenting the needle. “If it turns out they speak the truth, then I will return to them their lives. If not, then I keep them, and I will see to it that you will hang before the sun sets over my Palace for desecrating a Hero’s good name.”

The Storyteller pushes the needle forward, the sharp end stabbing Leo directly in the forehead. He screams with the pain, before the Storyteller yanks the needle back like he’s pulling a thorn free.

Everything goes dark.

Otabek smells the forest pine needles. He feels the cold dirt under his hands, the night’s chill creating goose flesh of his skin. He hears...he hears himself, even though he isn’t speaking.

He sees himself, standing with Leo yanked to his side and his hand resting on his dagger still sheathed.

Otabek tries to move, but he finds himself still trapped to the ground. To his right, Leroy is glancing around, taking in his surroundings with nervous apprehension. In the shadows, further down the path, the Royal Guard stand off to the side.

At Otabek’s side, Leo is standing, eyes wide and glowing with a calm white light.

“W-Where am I? Where are we?” Leo asks. He blindly steps forward, hands outstretched for something to grab onto.

“ _Your Story_ ,” the Storyteller’s voice answers, though the man himself isn’t physically present. Leo takes another step, the chains rattling.

“Leo, I’m still stuck here,” Otabek protests before the boy can try to wander any further and pull Otabek trapped on the ground. Leo stops, crouching down, blindly pawing for Otabek and accidentally swatting at Otabek’s cheek.

“What’s going on? What’s happening? I-I can’t see,” Leo says aloud.

“ _Your eyes are mine. I will see for myself whether you are innocent_.”

“We are!” Leo snaps back. He reaches for Otabek, and Otabek manages to hold Leo’s wrist. “Where are we? What’s happening? Can you see?”

“Barely,” Otabek grunts, lifting his head enough so it doesn’t touch the dirt as it was before. “We’re on the path, when we first met her.”

Leo smiles, making a triumphant fist. “So he sees it! He sees we didn’t do anything other than talk!”

Otabek strains his ears and his eyes. It’s hard to see past his and Leo’s figures from where he’s at on the ground, so the most he can do is follow the conversation that they and the witch had.

He sees the Leo from the Story give his head a furious shake of the head ‘no’, his shoulders shaking.

_My...my heart says that I shouldn’t be here, but...but I don’t understand why I was brought here in the first place unless to help the Hero in his quest._

Beside him, Otabek hears Leo give a gasp. “That’s me!” he exclaims with surprise and wonder, squeezing Otabek’s wrist. “That’s me! You see?! We weren’t supposed to be there! We were set up!”

Otabek listens for the witch’s voice to speak amid Leo’s professing of their innocence, eyes closed shut to focus.

...

...

...

Wait.

Otabek furrows his eyebrows. He concentrates harder.

But he doesn’t hear the woman speaking as clearly as the Story Leo did.

“Oi,” Otabek grunts, turning his head to look at Leroy. “We can hear what he’s hearing, right?”

Leroy nods. “We’re just in his Story. We hear everything that he heard and see what he saw...except for him, of course.”

“So why can’t I hear her? She should be talking right now,” Otabek says. He sees himself and Leo listening intently, their figures standing upright with alarm as if they were doused with cold water.

Leroy squints.

“...What do you mean? You two weren’t talking to _anybody_.”

...

...

... _What?_

“What are you talking about? She was standing right in front of us,” Otabek says. Leroy is an idiot, but surely he isn’t _blind_.

Leroy shakes his head, hands on his hips as he gives a confused huff. “No, there’s no one there. You guys were talking to nothing,” he says, his head tilting to the side as the Story Leo exhibits breathless shock and the Story Otabek hangs his head in guilt.

“ _What is this?_ ” the Storyteller voices the longer this moment stretches of Otabek and Leo talking and answering to silence. Otabek now begins to squirm on the ground, while Leo beside him begins to turn his head to nervously glance around.

“What’s going on now? What’s happening?” Leo asks.

“Is he just not _remembering_ it right?” Otabek questions Leroy. “She was there. I _know_ she was there!”

“It’s not based off of memory. Whatever happens in a Story happened to you in the past or _will_ happen,” Leroy explains, puffing his chest up. “The Storyteller is never wrong!”

“But this isn’t _right_ ,” Otabek says through clenched teeth, before pausing as he sees the Story Otabek turn swiftly on his heel, done talking and walking towards them.

 _Where are you going?!_ , the Story Leo shouts.

 _Home_ , the Story Otabek responds, disappearing into the darkness.

Otabek now has a clear view of the trail up ahead.

The Story Leo is standing completely alone.

No. No, this _can’t_ be right.

“ _Where is the beggar woman? What is this farce?_ ” the Storyteller questions. He sounds perplexed, and also angry that he _is_ perplexed.

“She’s there! She’s...she’s there...isn’t she?” Leo asks, confused.

The Story Leo’s pulls the air around him like its a fabric, his expression worried. He then bends down as if he’s being pulled, before he turns around and walks down the path as the Story Otabek did.

“ _Where is she?_ ” the Storyteller questions, and a torrent of wind rattles the trees and the dirt. Otabek closes his eyes from it, opening only when he hears his voice speaking again, repeating the words they listened to only moments before as the event starts again.

“ _Where is she?! You say that she’s there, but there’s nothing!_ ” the Storyteller accuses. Another violent gust of wind blows through the forest, and the Story Otabek and Leo are gone from the trail, their spot now behind the tree. They jump out at nothing. The Story Leo stutters out excuses to no one. The Story Otabek questions nobody.

The winds continue to blow from all directions, replaying the scene over and over and over again as if something new will reveal itself for how the beggar woman disappeared from Leo’s Story. With each replay, the winds get stronger. They get _angrier_.

“ _This isn’t right_ ,” the Storyteller speaks, and he appears at Leo’s side in the blink of an eye to grab him by his throat and lift him in the air. The forest disappears at once, with the interior of the visitation palace replacing it. The morning sunlight is still shining through the window, as if no time has passed since their arrival.

The chains come undone from Otabek’s wrists, falling into a heap of metal on the ground. Gravity eases off his body, and Otabek slowly gets to his feet. He feels sick, though not sure if it’s because of going through Leo’s Story or because he hasn’t eaten. Possibly the latter.

The Storyteller presses his thumb against Leo’s windpipe. “Choose your next words wisely as you answer my questions. I am not amused by foolish games.”

The fire from beneath the Storyteller’s skin is gone. The wrinkles on his face and his now bony hands appear as though someone is etching them on. His mouth pulls into a frown, the red of his lips looking shiny.

“You say there was a beggar woman, yet there was not. The Royal Guard says there was a murder, yet you cannot _murder_ what _isn’t there_. So you have better explain to me just _what_ is going on.”

Leo claws at the Storyteller’s hand. “I - I told you!” Leo gasps. “She was there! She told us everything! She...she was a witch!”

“A _witch_ cannot hide from my eyes! You’re lying! There was never a soul there!” the Storyteller yells.

“B-But, My Lord,” one of the Royal Guard stammers from the distance, his voice carrying through the quiet interior of the hall. “The Hero Gerhardt said there was a murder. The Undertaker himself claimed a body.”

“What did the beggar woman look like? _Tell me_ , because the Hero _isn’t here_ to say otherwise,” the Storyteller hisses to the Royal Guard.

The two stand there, knees beginning to tremble. “We...we didn’t see the body. We only took the prisoners.”

The Storyteller takes in a deep inhale through his nose.

“Your negligence is abhorrent for someone of a Royal Guard," he growls through clenched teeth.

“B-But we trusted in the Hero Gerhardt’s words! There would be no need to doubt him because he is a Hero!” one of the Royal Guard protests. “So, if he says they committed murder, then they did!...B-But if _you_ say they didn’t...then...then he...I don’t...I don’t understand.”

“Gerhardt lied,” Otabek says. “He lied about the woman being a witch. He lied about her son being his one true love. He lied about us killing her.” There’s something brave stirring in Otabek’s chest, tasting sweet on his tongue, like apples. “No matter how you look at it, we’re innocent. Gerhardt had us wrongly jailed and the Storyteller was wrong.”

Now, Otabek is the one that is being lifted off the ground by his neck, Leo dropped and discarded at the Storyteller’s side.

“I am _never_ wrong. My word is the only truth and outcome,” he hisses in Otabek’s face.

Otabek struggles against the Storyteller’s hold, choking out a grunt. There’s something...strange that he’s feeling. It feels like a gentle touch, lightly moving up his sternum, his neck, his jaw, his cheek, until it pauses at his forehead, like a pair of lips kissing him on the head, motherly and sweet.

His mind goes blank for split moment, his vision flashing white.

He feels warm.

He feels loved, a gentle smile curling onto his lips.

The sensation disappears as quickly as it came, and Otabek’s vision clears to see himself reflected in the Storyteller’s eyes wide with shock.

“ _What_ did you just say?” the Storyteller breathes with his jaw gaped. Otabek can feel the man’s hand around his throat shaking, but Otabek can’t tell if its of anger or of fear.

“I don’t...I didn’t say anything-”

“ _Don’t play dumb with me!_ ” the Storyteller screams, and Otabek’s vision goes white the same moment a sharp pain stabs at his forehead where that gentle sensation once was.

He smells the forest again. He can hear the quiet conversation between him and Leo. He can feel the cold breeze on his skin, but he can’t see a thing.

“ _Where are you?! You horrid bitch, show yourself!_ ” the Storyteller yells into the emptiness of Otabek’s Story.

The winds blow, and Otabek smells alcohol, blood, the stench of his father’s clothing. He feels a stinging pain on his jaw and his right eye, his legs limp and just about to give out.

“ _You can’t hide from me! I’ll tear his Story into pieces if I have to!_ ”

Otabek hears the cheers of the villagers as the winds blow yet again, and the pungent smell of alcohol is even stronger. Leo’s shouts are loud and defiant; the rattling of the chains echo in Otabek’s ears.

“ _Where are you?! **Where are you?!**_ ”

“Sir!”

The world suddenly snaps itself into focus.

Otabek is shaking on the ground in the visitation hall, lying on his side with blood coming from his nose. Leo is crouched down beside him, while Leroy stands in between them and the Storyteller’s gleaming red eyes.

“We should let them have a break!” Leroy puts forward. “They haven’t eaten, so their bodies aren’t well suited for you to look through their Stories this way! And - and we need to talk to Gerhardt and get to the bottom of this!” Making a proud fist, Leroy adds, “I’m sure that once we hear the Hero’s testimony, things will be clearer! In fact, I’ll help look for him! A Hero’s duty is to serve the Capital to the fullest and I am the Capital’s Valiant Hero!”

The Storyteller ignores Leroy, hurrying out the doors without saying another word.

An uncomfortable silence settles over the room. The Royal Guard look to each other, before they look to Leroy.

“G-Get them shackled up and take them to the cell,” one of them orders, before they too hurry out the doors of the visitation hall after the Storyteller.

Otabek places a hand to his nose, swallowing a glob of spit. He sits up, wincing at the splintering pain in his forehead.

“What happened?” he asks, looking to Leroy and then Leo. Leroy’s shoulders relax, but he doesn’t acknowledge Otabek’s question just yet. He grabs the chains and cuffs Leo and Otabek’s wrists, then helps Otabek up to his feet as Leo gets to his.

“You two should be thankful to me that he didn’t turn you guys into a mush,“ Leroy protests with a sigh, giving a pout to Otabek. “And I said don’t cause any trouble. Don’t you know how _hard_ it is to get audience with the Storyteller when he’s been put in a foul mood. I mean, not like it’s hard for _me_ or anything, because _I’m_ a Hero and Heroes-“

Otabek retches up bile and spit, coughing roughly.

Leo hurriedly begins rubbing Otabek’s back in small circles. “A-Are you okay?!” he asks.

“I’m fine,” Otabek manages to muster, though he feels exhausted.

Leroy helps them both up to their feet, giving a tug of their chains.

“Come on, lets feed you two. Hopefully by then, the Storyteller will have...calmed down,” the Hero says with a smile that is big and hopeful, stepping over the mess Otabek made as he guides them to the large doors.

“I guess the Storyteller looked through your Story, though he didn’t bring any of us in to witness it like he did with me,” Leo whispers to Otabek as they walk. “But...why did you say that to him? _How_ did you say that? You...you kinda sounded like a woman for a second.”

Otabek blinks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“...You don’t remember?”

“No. What...what did I say?” asks Otabek.

Leo turns his gaze to the floor, biting at his lower lip.

“...When the Storyteller said his word is absolute, you said - in a _woman’s voice_ which is _weird_ \- ‘not for long, dearest brother, for I have finally _won_.’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started school again so idk how frequent I will be updating but I’ll do what I can! Thank you for the comments so far!!


	6. Be Our Guest

Aurelia is bright. It’s beautiful. It’s _loud_.

The skies are blue and rain down colorful bursts of paper confetti. The winds carry a smell of baked goods and sweet wine on its currents. The sounds - there are _so many sounds_. Children laughing. Horns blaring. Tambourines jingling. Merchants and customers shouting.

Yuuri tries to take it all in, but he knows this is a lot to chew. He holds Vicchan against his chest, the puppy yipping and squirming in his hold, positively itching to explore while Yuuri remains rooted by the wagon.

"Is it always like this?" Yuuri asks Mari as she unloads a crate from the wagon. She huffs, dropping the crate by the wagon’s wheel, then braces her foot against the corner of it.

"Only when the Hawker has something new to showcase," Mari answers. She reaches for a stick of tobacco, patting down her trousers for a match.

"And the Hawker...they’re like the Storyteller?"

"Not really." Mari reaches out to pull Yuuri back as a parade succession makes its way past, filled with fire jugglers and dancers with painted faces and blithe smiles. She lights her tobacco stick on one of the burning clubs the jugglers toss into the air, bringing it to her lips for a satisfied drag. Yuuri watches her in slight amazement, the smell of her tobacco wafting into his lungs and creating a funny tickle.

"The Hawker doesn’t have the power to recant Stories like the Storyteller does," Mari mumbles, taking another slow drag and exhaling the smoke through her nose. "He has a set of Minstrels that can make all those images and smells and sounds like the Storyteller does, but I can’t say it’s the same. It’s more...dramatic. Kinda like you’re watching a play that’s all about you, put on by only one actor."

A set of clowns wander past them, their clothes pure white and their faces painted with every color of the rainbow. They hold in their arms flowers - peonies, daffodils, daisies, marigolds.

One of them offers a flower to Mari, one with vibrant pink petals. Wordlessly, she takes it.

"People seem really kind here. And happy," Yuuri says with a little smile as the clowns wander off to intermingle with the crowd, seamlessly blending in with the cacophony of music and voices in the warm air.

Mari hums, tossing the flower onto the crate.

"Yeah, you’d think so,” she says, not bothering to clarify.

Minako arrives shortly afterwards with a few bags of stuffed full of poppy seed buns and strips of cooked meat. She hands two of them to Yuuri, who takes them with mild confusion.

“For your travels,” Minako explains, tearing into a poppy seed bun of her own.

Yuuri hands them forward. “You already done enough for me,” he insists, but Minako pushes them back into his grasp, smiling as Vicchan begins to nose at the food from its delicious smell.

“Just take the food, Kid. You’re going to be traveling for a while if you’re trying to get to the Capital only during the daylight. Ration it out, make sure your dog doesn’t eat it all.”

Though Yuuri doesn’t necessarily feel his brows beginning to furrow in displeasure, Minako pokes at the space between them with a little smirk. “You’re too cute to make faces like that. Cut it out.”

Yuuri rubs at them, averting his eyes. “I don’t feel right taking things from you,” he admits. “At least let me give you something for everything you’ve done.”

Minako hums. Then, she lightly runs her fingertips down the front of Yuuri’s red cloak.

“This _is_ a rather nice cloak,” she muses aloud. “If you wish to give me something so badly, I’ll take this.”

Yuuri steps back out of her reach. Minako laughs.

“You’re so attached to that thing!” she accuses, then waves her hand. “Alright, alright, never mind. You’re an artist, right? Make me a sign for the wagon. Something that’ll draw everyone’s attention over here and that will be your payment.”

Holding her hand out for Yuuri to shake, she gives a little cock of her head. “Deal?”

Yuuri nods, taking her hand into his.

 

* * *

 

 

It doesn’t take long to acquire materials needed to craft a sign. Mari takes Yuuri around Aurelia’s village square for sightseeing and scoping out the competition, while meanwhile, Minako begins to set up shop.

It seems as though every merchant sells almost everything: paints and dyes, fabric and sewing tools, paintbrushes and charcoal and paper books to draw in. Yuuri peruses each stand, making his purchases sparse for only the necessities, though he does pause to linger beside the moleskin notebooks and oil pastel sets.

“Where’d you learn how to draw?” Mari asks Yuuri when they leave the square, both retreating to a grassy knoll that overlooks a trickling river stream. They’re not too far away that they can’t hear the boom and roar of the festivities in the town, but at a distance where it is just an echo that carries on the breeze, much like the scent of the flowers that bloom around them.

Vicchan is out of the wicker basket and frolicking around Yuuri as he gets comfortable with his notepad in his lap.

“My mother. I started to draw when I was seven, little things like landscapes and people,” he answers, sifting through his bought materials for a charcoal stick. Mari takes a seat beside him, her knees pulled up to her chest.

“I see.”

They both sit in silence. Yuuri begins to make a sketch, testing the feel of the nub in his grasp, slowly getting into the groove of creating art again. It is only until he realizes that Mari is looking at him from out of the corner of his eye that he stops.

“Um.” Yuuri smiles, and he puts a small bit of distance between them. “I usually don’t...draw in front of an audience.”

Mari doesn’t move from her spot. She only stares intensely at Yuuri’s face, at the unsure flutter of his eyes.

“...Your mother...was her name Hiroko?”

Yuuri blinks. “No, it wasn’t.”

That doesn’t seem to be the right answer, since Mari gives a frown. “What about your father?”

“I didn’t have a father.”

Mari sighs.

Yuuri sets the sketch pad on his knee, watching with slight confusion as Mari lounges into the grass to stare blankly up at the blue sky. “Is there something wrong?” Yuuri asks.

Mari closes her eyes. “...You just...you remind me of someone. That’s all.”

“Oh.” Yuuri goes back to looking at the beginnings of his sketch, a rather unsettling feeling itching its way up his spine that he tries to shrug off.

He goes back to drawing, to shading, to filling in the shadows and bringing out the highlights with different colored inks and finely lined strokes. Vicchan curls up against Yuuri’s side, tuckered out from playing and basking in the sunlight. The sound of the town square doesn’t cease the time that they spend on the grassy knoll. In fact, to Yuuri’s ears, it seems like the noise grows louder with excitement as the sun gets pulled through the sky by the oncoming night.

“Yuuri,” Mari speaks again as Yuuri stops for a moment’s break. She sits up and crosses her legs, patting down her trousers again for a cigarette. “Promise me that when Minako and I leave, you learn something. Get a job as a dancer or a bartender. Find a way to earn gold and to earn a lot of it before you even set foot in the Capital.”

Yuuri wipes his hands clean with a handkerchief, before he reaches into the wicker basket and pulls some of the dried meat out. Feeding some of it to Vicchan, Yuuri takes a few small bites of his own afterwards.

“You said I’d need money to see the Storyteller, right?” Yuuri asks in between chews. “Isn’t there any other way? I mean...a Story is important, right?”

“The only people that can visit with the Storyteller any time they want are Heroes,” Mari says with a scoff, “the absolute lapdogs that they are. Otherwise, if you don’t have the money and you want to see your Story, you’ll have to take a Bet.”

“...A Bet?”

Mari nods, and the lines of her face harden with small regret. She finds a stick of tobacco at last, reaching into Yuuri’s basket for the set of matches she bought for herself at the market.

“The Storyteller doesn’t like questions. He doesn’t like people asking ‘why?’ or ‘how come?’ or ‘what if?’. If anyone comes to him asking about their Story, it’s always something that makes him angry. The price is supposed to discourage people. Ten thousand gold is so hard to come by in these parts; really, only people in the Capital have that kind of money lying around. But, people still try to go anyways to ask the whys and the how comes and the what ifs. That’s where the Bet comes in.”

She lights the cigarette and takes a slow drag. Yuuri watches her shoulders sag with exhaustion, the downward flutter of her eyes.

“...Minako and I were taken from our home village by some bandits. They carted us around, sold some of the women and children to Capital buyers and used others to barter with even bigger thugs with bigger weapons. I was only a kid so I didn’t know much what was happening or why it was. But Minako looked after me. She protected me. And when we escaped, she never stopped taking care of me.”

Another drag, longer this time. The space between them diminishes as Yuuri leans in closer, eyes wide, intrigued.

“I asked to go to the Storyteller when I was fourteen. I thought the Storyteller could help find my parents if they made it out of the raid. I...I knew that they had to be out there somewhere looking for me. I didn’t have any money, so I made a Bet.”

And there, Mari cracks a sad little smile around her cigarette.

“For ten years of my Story, I made a Bet that my parents were alive and asked to be reunited with them. He...he told me that their Stories will forever be ones of tragedy, and I will never be with them for as long as I lived.”

Mari lies down in the grass on her side. Vicchan moves to curl up against her hip, as if he senses Mari’s need for a kind touch.

“But...but he didn’t answer you,” Yuuri responds after a pause. “They could still be alive. You could still see them, can’t you?”

Mari sighs. “We’ve tried. We’ve tried to go back to the village to see for ourselves. Every single time, something pushes us back. Storms, monsters, lack of provisions needed to make the trek just disappearing even when we’ve stocked the wagon full the night prior...every time we try, something - or rather, _someone_ \- keeps us away.”

She withdraws the cigarette from her lips and blows a stream of smoke. “What I’m getting at is this: save your money. Save every little coin you come across so you can pay that fee and not sacrifice years of your life to prove him wrong,” Mari tells him, hands drawing into tight fists. “We’re so close to earning his fee from selling our wares. And when we’re done, we’re going to go to the Capital and I’m going to find out the truth about my family.”

Yuuri holds his sketch pad close, the wind making the ends of the page rustle.

“I hope you find your family,” Yuuri says, not sure what other words he can possibly offer.

Mari smiles at Yuuri. It’s warm and familiar, yet still unknowable to forefront of Yuuri’s thoughts.

She lounges back into the grass to smoke her cigarette and stares up at the orange and purple skies, not saying anything else in their shared time together.

 

* * *

 

"Ahh! I love it!"

It’s strange for Yuuri to hear praise for his artwork, even stranger to create artwork for someone other than himself. He fusses with the ends of his red cloak, warm pride blooming just beneath his cheeks. In front of him, Minako turns her new sign around to admire it from all angles possible.

"She wasn’t kidding when she said you can draw," Minako compliments, resting against the side of her wagon. "It almost looks like a glass window."

The sign is made with different spectrums of colored ink, its dark shadows brought out with charcoal. Minako’s name - with the aid of Mari - is spelled in the center, outlined in a silver color to make it look as though it were basking in a heavenly glow.

"I’m not all that good at calligraphy," Yuuri offers, looking up through his eyelashes, "but I am glad at how this one turned out."

"You’re being modest, Kid," Minako lightheartedly scolds. She gives a playful punch to his shoulder. It stings moments later.

Minako sets the sign atop a stack of emptied crates stationed by the opening of the wagon, before she then turns her gaze to the skies and its darkening hues. The noise has dropped a substantial amount, the only figures loitering in the village square being the merchants and their wares.

Further off in the distance, there is a glow of light and color that Yuuri cannot discern where it is exactly coming from. There’s noise there too; it floats through the air to his ears, urging him to sate the curiosity that purrs up his spine.

“Did we turn in a profit?” Mari asks Minako as she leans against the wagon, arms crossed.

Minako nods, patting a small bag on her hip. It jingles with the touch, fat with gold coins.

“It’s always a profit on the first day. But we’ll be testing our luck with the second,” Minako says. “It’s best to just take what we got and go. We don’t want to gamble on it.”

Mari nods fully in agreement. Something pinches in Yuuri’s chest like a small nerve on hearing Minako say such a thing.

“So, you’re leaving then,” Yuuri says.

“That’s the plan. Carabosse is next and then we’ll see about heading south to Fleur,” Minako deduces. She turns her nose down at Yuuri, eyebrow raised. “And you’re going to be heading up northwest of here, to the Capital,” she informs. Yuuri nods, but its rather reluctant.

Clapping her hand on Yuuri’s shoulder once again, Minako says, “A word of advice, Kid—“ and here, her eyes get dark with serious concern— “Aurelia is a nice place to visit, but it isn’t one to stay. Find a map, find a ride, and get out of here as soon as you can, no longer than three nights. You understand?”

Yuuri nods his head again, though now he is even more unsure even though Minako gives a reassuring squeeze of her hand.

The woman smiles. “Hopefully we’ll see you around sometime, yeah? When you’ve found out your Story and all,” Minako hopes. She winks at him, then wraps an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders to hug him against her side. “Take care of yourself, Kid.”

Yuuri awkwardly hugs her back.

Minako stoops down to give Vicchan a pleasant belly rub goodbye, before she gives an affirming nod to Mari and climbs into the wagon with the sign. Mari approaches Vicchan first with a scratch behind Vicchan’s ears, before she stands upright and meets Yuuri’s docile gaze.

There’s silence between them, thick and heavy as though it were heated conversation and one waits to break the ice.

“Remember what I told you,” Mari finally says. Her words come out as a grunt through tightly pursed and twisting lips. Her gaze is intense on Yuuri again; Yuuri wonders if Mari sees what she desires reflected in his eyes perfectly.

Yuuri is the one that looks away first, to the dirt and the small rocks and the scuff marks at the toe of both their boots. “I will...thank you for the advice,” Yuuri speaks, his voice a quiet murmur.

He sees Mari’s hand clench and unclench at her side, the hesitation of her fingers. Then, she raises her hands and rests them on Yuuri’s shoulders, pulling him inwards for a hug that has both of Mari’s arms winding around his torso to hold him tight against her.

Though Yuuri immediately stiffens in surprise, he becomes lax and warm. Mari smells like tobacco and orange peels, but there’s something else that’s...familiar. It’s something that feels like its all his own to have if he should want it. He doesn’t know if he wants it. He doesn’t know what this feeling is to begin with.

Mari lets him go, and she sighs temporary relief.

“I just...thought you’d might like that,” Mari says. Her cheeks are tinting pink now, embarrassed at her body’s actions. Yuuri nods his head, understanding.

“I did...I hope you find your family,” Yuuri says again, but now there’s true hope in his words, in his chest and his lungs as he speaks it forward.

Mari nods her head. It’s a solemn movement.

“I hope you find out who you are,” she tells him, and she speaks it in the same tone that it becomes an eerie mimicking echo in the depths of Yuuri’s ears.

They gaze upon each other for only a moment, before eventually, Yuuri steps back and Mari steps back to the wagon. She hoists herself up and inside, and with that, the wheels of the wagon begin to move on their own.

Yuuri picks Vicchan up to hold against his chest, watching Minako wave goodbye from inside until they become a speck in the dark on the horizon, and then gone entirely from Yuuri’s vision.

There is a brief pause before Yuuri realizes his cheeks are a bit wet. He wipes at them, then at the corners of his eyes where they’re also a bit wet, and then at his nose where it feels like it’s itchy and sensitive.

“Let’s—“ Yuuri starts, then clears away the sudden desert in his throat as he breathes the cool village air — “let’s find shelter for the night,” he tells Vicchan.

Vicchan snuggles against Yuuri’s chest, before he allows Yuuri to carefully tuck him away in his wicker basket alongside his materials and small provisions.

Pulling the hood of the red cloak over his head, Yuuri starts toward the glow in the hearth of the village, wandering down a pathway of yellow stone with hurried steps.

He follows the glow, he follows the sound of music and laughter. He smells meat roasting over a fire, dripping with its juices and doused in spices, and also the pungent smell of alcohol and booze that makes Yuuri dizzy as he breathes it all in.

There’s a path of torches upon tall posts that light the pathway, introducing Yuuri to a new venue where the merchants are sparse but Aurelia’s citizens thrive and engage in a beautiful mess of drinking and dining and music galore.

Yuuri sees now that the glow he saw from the distance comes from a large set of ruins, elegant in their destroyed state. There are statues of women, their arms broken and torsos chipped away, their faces disfigured and marred by something hot and unforgiving, to the point that Yuuri can’t even fathom who the statues are supposed to be. Behind the ruins, there is a small palace of white marble and smooth pink stone, standing tall and proud. It doesn’t look like it fits in with the rest of the ruins, as though it had only recently sprung up to make itself home amid the destruction.

In the basket, Vicchan gives a sad whine. Yuuri brings a hand down on his head to comfort him.

“Is it too loud?” Yuuri asks the pup, glancing around for someplace quiet to rest.

Off down another pathway, he sees a small wooden sign and its message painted in a lovely cursive: _Inn Open for Visitors. Please do come and make your stay with us._

Yuuri goes to admire the sign and the brushstroke of the words, before he goes away from the noise of the party down the pathway where it is quiet and dim.

It does not take long before he arrives at a building that stands two stories tall, made of wood and straw, smelling of the Earth and moss. Yuuri sees the familiar brushstroke on the wooden sign just before the stone path that leads to the building’s door: _Ketty’s Inn_ , it reads.

Yuuri treads up the path, the sound of his boots squelching as he walks over stones covered with a thick moss and mud loud and disgusting. The closer he draws to the inn, the stronger the dirt and grass smell becomes. When Yuuri stands on the porch, he has one hand to his mouth and nose while the other gives the wooden door a light rapt of his knuckles.

It opens immediately. “Welcome!” a haggardly woman greets with a one toothed smile.

She grabs Yuuri by the hand he used to knock, and all but yanks him into the darkness of the inn.

“A visitor, oh my. It’s been so long since we’ve had more than one visitor at the same time!” the woman coos as she takes Yuuri to a desk where an open ledger rests by an inkwell and quill pen. She moves with an erratic little shuffle; her feet drag across the wooden floor of the inn, and the building creaks and groans with her movement.

Yuuri gives an unsure glance of his surroundings and tries to understand just what situation did he just put himself into.

It’s warm, but there is no source of the heat from where he stands. There’s barely even a source of light; it’s dim and the only way Yuuri can even see two inches past his nose is due to the lantern outside shining through the two windows framing the desk the woman stands behind. To the left of her, there are a set of rickety looking stairs that lead to a second floor.

“Now, if you will be so kind as to sign here. And I may take your things for you, my lovely child,” she says, reaching for Yuuri’s cloak. Yuuri steps back out of the woman’s reach, a protective fist clutching to the front of his chest.

“N-No, thank you. I don’t think I should stay for long-“

“Oh, but you must! It won’t be long until the Hawker begins his show, and by then everyone will be gone to see the Minstrels perform,” she says. In the darkness, Yuuri sees the gleam of her eyes. They’re glassy, red, and hold a mischievous sheen to them. They remind him of his mother’s.

“You look tired,” she says bluntly, and somehow she reaches far enough to grab hold of Yuuri’s wrist, bringing it close to inspect his pulse as she pushes her thumb against his skin. “Who hid you away for all these years? You look like you’ve barely been out in the sun.”

Yuuri pulls his hand from hers. She smiles.

“Stay the night,” she says, sounding more like a demand than a request. She pushes the ledger forward. Yuuri eyes it with suspicion.

“I don’t have any money,” Yuuri confesses.

“I’m sure we can come up with some sort of arrangement,” she fawns. Yuuri clutches protectively at the cloak. The woman laughs in amusement.

“Such a fine cloak,” she muses aloud, resting her chin on the wrinkles of her knuckles. “I’ve only seen such a shade of red in the Capital. Everything is brighter there. Everything is beautiful.”

“I...I see...” Yuuri tucks his chin down, his nose grazing against the collar of the cloak. His scent - Yuuri’s sweat and Vicchan’s stink and paint polymers - has masked the scent that used to be Victor’s. Though, the scent of Victor and pine needles are still there if Yuuri closes his eyes and focuses hard enough. It’s just hidden well and rather faint.

“My, my, just the sight of it makes me curious as to who you may be,” she says with a sigh, and her head gives an inquisitive little tilt to the right. “A Hero’s Lover, perhaps? Oh, but you’re so young, and surely a Hero wouldn’t allow his Beloved to travel by himself. An Aristocrat, then? But Aristocrats wouldn’t stoop so low as to visit my little inn, nor do they have that kind glimmer in your eyes.”

She hums, and she takes in Yuuri’s features with careful scrutiny. “Yes...yes your eyes are quite beautiful,” she murmurs, “...skin fair and pale like fresh snow, eyes that hold the stars and lips that shame the red rose...has the Hawker seen you?”

Yuuri averts his eyes, bringing a hand to his face to somehow obscure it from the woman looking upon him any further.

“No, I haven’t met the Hawker. I don’t even know _who_ the Hawker is,” Yuuri says.

The woman gives a gasp. “Oh! You’re missing out on all of the festivities if you do not know who the Hawker and his Minstrels are!” the woman enthuses. She hurries around the desk, hands waving about as she begins to hurry Yuuri towards the door. “Go go! Go and see the Hawker and hear the Minstrels tell their tales! I will have a room prepared for you when you come back!”

Yuuri tries to dig his heels into the wooden floors as best as he can, but the woman is surprisingly strong for her appearance. In the basket, Vicchan begins to whimper and whine, shifting nervously about in the small space he has.

“What’s wrong?” Yuuri asks, stopping in the doorway leading to the outside. He takes his finger to scratch behind Vicchan’s ear, and it looks like Vicchan appreciates the touch. The pup is shivering beneath Yuuri’s touch. He blinks at Yuuri with shiny black eyes.

“What a cute little puppy,” the woman compliments with a sigh, reaching out her wrinkly hands towards Vicchan. Yuuri pulls his basket back from her reach, eyes wary. The woman doesn’t appear the least bit insulted.

“My, my, my,” her voice says in a dulcet tone, “so distrusting of others.”

Yuuri visibly bristles at her words. “I-I’m sorry, I-“

“You must not have seen much of the outside world,” she murmurs, and she inspects Yuuri again, her eyes roaming the length of his body from head to toe. “Such a child should not wander these parts alone. There are monsters everywhere.”

“I’m fine,” Yuuri says defensively, holding tight to the handle of his wicker basket. “I’ll be looking for a traveling party that will be heading to the Capital and-“

The woman cackles. It’s a sharp sound, one that cuts through the air and rattles Yuuri where he stands.

“There will be no travelers tonight, nor tomorrow. Everyone that hasn’t left already is here to see the Hawker!” she boasts. Stepping closer to Yuuri, her thin smile turns wry with mischief. “You will not be able to leave for the Capital with a traveling party until the Hawker and his Minstrels have told their tales. Please, do enjoy one of Aurelia’s Wonders and go to see them!”

Yuuri blinks at the woman, then looks to Vicchan in the basket. The puppy turns around in the space allotted to him, before he continues to whimper and whine. Like a magnet, the woman draws close to Yuuri, her hands reaching for Vicchan once more.

“I shall take care of your little puppy if you so wish,” she offers. “A Minstrel’s Tale can be an overwhelming experience. I wouldn’t take him if I were you.”

Another cautious glance to Vicchan is spared. Yuuri bites at his lower lip.

“...He has been acting a little strange...”

“Poor darling must be stressed from the travels. I’ll fix him a nice dinner and give him a bath while you are gone, hmm?”

The woman is closer, standing within Yuuri’s personal space and looking up at him through long, grey eyelashes. He sees himself reflected in her red irises; the corners of his lips give an unsure curl downwards as he thinks.

“...I...I suppose that would be fine...” Yuuri eventually speaks. The woman smiles kindly.

She reaches her hands outwards for Yuuri’s basket. With small reluctance, he hands it over to her.

Vicchan stirs in the basket as the woman takes a wrinkly hand to run through his curly brown fur. He gives a loud yip, not towards the woman, but to Yuuri. Yuuri squares his shoulders back, averting his eyes.

“You say there are people that are going to see the Hawker that will leave as soon as they’re done telling their stories, right? I’ll...I’ll go up there and see about finding a party to join. The sooner, the better,” Yuuri resigns, nodding to himself.

“Aurelia is such a nice village,” the woman says. Her smile is placid, but yet...off. She cards another hand through Vicchan’s fur. “I wish you will stay with us and enjoy the Hawker and his Minstrels. They are always so kind to bring us entertainment, especially after we’ve gone so long without it.”

Yuuri doesn’t have any words to say to her comment.

The Hawker...Yuuri wonders if he is anything like the Storyteller. There’s something fond in how the woman speaks of him that’s different from how Yuuri’s heard people speak of the Storyteller. She sounds so in awe of the Hawker; her voice floats on a pitch that rises and falls when she speaks, the lashes of her eyes fluttering as she sighs.

Compared to the gentle animosity Mari held for the Storyteller, the Hawker doesn’t seem like a bad person.

The woman hums. “If you are going to be leaving, then maybe my other guest would like to go with you,” she says, and she walks back to her desk with Vicchan in her grasp. She bends down, withdrawing a tarnished bell that dings an unpleasant note. “I promised to ring for her,” the woman explains, before she goes back to playing with Vicchan’s fur.

Yuuri shakes his head, starting towards the door. “Really, it’s fine. I can go on my own-“

“You called, Good Lady?” a voice floats from the stairs, and a young girl makes her way down to the bottom floor, blinking her eyes in wide curiosity. Yuuri turns stiff from the sight of her, his heart beating in manic anticipation.

It’s her. That girl that was with Victor.

She looks to Yuuri with mild curiosity, before it soon changes to clarity and realization in the depths of her irises. She approaches Yuuri with open arms, hugging his body while his arms remain at his sides.

“Good Sir! How pleasant it is to see you again!” Eilowny says, then goes to the woman and pets the top of Vicchan’s head. “And sweet Victor! How do you do?”

Vicchan yelps and barks. Eilowny hums, eyebrows furrowing. “You seem rather distressed. Are you and the Good Sir alright?”

“He’s just hungry,” the woman says with a wave of her hand, then uses it to rub Vicchan’s back. “Young lady, this gentleman is going to see the Hawker. Would you like to accompany him? It is so much more enjoyable to see a Minstrel’s tale in groups than alone.”

Eilowny clasps her hands together in delight, nodding her head ‘yes’. She moves to Yuuri, a bounce in her step and her golden hair trailing behind on an invisible breeze.

“I would love to accompany you, Good Sir,” she says. Yuuri bites his lower lip.

“Is...Is Victor here with you?” Yuuri asks. There’s something breathless and stupidly hopeful in the way Yuuri says Victor’s name. He blushes just from the sound of his own voice, the dreamy tone of it, the longing inflection of the question asked.

Eilowny shakes her head. “I apologize, but the Good Sir has already left,” she answers. Yuuri manages to resist the sag of his shoulders, but he still gives a discouraged turn of his eyes down to their feet.

“Oh. I see.”

There’s silence, uncomfortable and heavy. Eilowny offers her arm towards Yuuri.

“If you would like,” she says with a gentle smile, “I can tell you as much about the Good Sir that I know. Perhaps you can find where he is heading and meet with him?”

Yuuri looks at the arm offered. He hesitates, an awkward step forward that looks like it wanted to be a step away, before he hooks an arm around Eilowny’s. She has the mossy scent on her person, but beneath it, Yuuri smells the sweetest hint of lavender.

“Be on your way now! I shall take good care of the pup while you are gone!” the woman reassures with a happy little wave of her hand. Yuuri watches as Vicchan begins to squirm in the woman’s hold, writhing about and trying to escape. He does not have much time to think on the matter, since he feels Eilowny pull him gently by the arm towards the door.

“We shall discuss matters of the Good Sir as we make our way to the Hawker, yes?” Eilowny says with a smile, hugging Yuuri’s arm to the side of her chest. Yuuri nods, cheeks warm.

Eilowny leads Yuuri out of the inn and into the night’s chill. Vicchan gives out a pitying bark just as the front door closes shut.

 

* * *

 

The moon makes itself full in the dark vastness of the night sky. To Jean-Jacques Leroy, the moon over the Capital is the second most beautiful thing he’s seen in all of his life.

“Hurry it up, you three,” one of the Royal Guard grunts a distance away, trying to keep the rattling of his armor from causing a disturbance so late in the night. Leroy nods, and abandons his gazing of the moon out the courtyard window to take hold of the chains.

“What more does he want from us?” one of the prisoners asks. Leroy remembers his name vaguely, the Stable Boy who lost his parents in the Bet. He was such a fiery young man when the Royal Guard brought the two prisoners in, but now he seems little more than a hollow shell, heavy bags under his eyes and a sickly paleness to his tan skin.

“Just be on your best behavior,” Leroy says to them. Really, it’s all he can say. He’s lived in the Capital all his life. He’s been blessed to have a Story of a Hero, and know that someday in the future, he will be blessed to be reunited with his True Love, her image fleeting in his Story but will become as clear as day when they finally meet.

He’s never questioned the Storyteller and his power. He’s never seen the need to act or _be_ anything outside of what the Storyteller asks of you.

The other prisoner is silent on the walk to the Storyteller’s quarters. His eyes are steely, his lips pressed in a hard line that doesn’t evoke emotion. Between the two, Leroy finds this prisoner the most off-putting. He recalls the Guard saying he’s a Delinquent, someone cursed with a horrid Story of neglect and distrust and will only do nothing but cause harm to others.

Yet, in their time imprisoned, the Delinquent has been quiet. He’s been patient...like he’s waiting for something to arise.

They walk, and they walk, and they walk. The Palace is so empty during the night. The air no longer smells intoxicating of perfume and champagne and face powder. The Aristocracy has since retired to their quarters and their homes in the Capital, surely to grace the courtyard and the hallways of the Palace tomorrow and spend their time doing absolutely nothing.

Leroy wonders if that is fun: to have a Story where all you do is stand about and do nothing, wanting for nothing because you already have everything.

The Royal Guard does nothing to explain the situation nor the reason why the Storyteller has summoned Leroy and the prisoners. He keeps his head down as he walks, his shoulders squared, his hands drawn into tight fists, and fails to keep the trepidation of his steps from going unnoticed to Leroy’s wary eyes.

It isn’t long until they stand before the doors to the Storyteller’s quarters. The Royal Guard opens it, and gestures for all to come inside.

Leroy enters first with the prisoners in tow. The room smells of death and decay, but it isn’t like the room ever had a pleasant scent to begin with. The walls are blacker; an ooze of grunge and grime sticks to the bottom of Leroy’s boots as he approaches the center of the hall where the Storyteller is seated. Leroy does his best to keep his eyes on the man’s face, and not the small puddle of darkness that licks around the man’s boots.

“You wished to see the prisoners, My Lord?” Leroy asks, kneeling.

The Storyteller doesn’t give an immediate response. He wipes his mouth with his hand, his lips red with blood.

“The beggar woman,” the Storyteller starts, “what did she say to you? That night in the forest when you supposedly met, what exactly did she say to you?”

Behind Leroy, the Stable Boy speaks, “She...she told us that she was a witch...and that her son was actually stolen from a couple in the woods when he was a baby.”

The Storyteller steeps his hands, his eyebrows turning down as he frowns.

“And the boy...how old was he?”

The Stable Boy squints at the Delinquent, then shrugs. “I don’t know. Pretty young? Eighteen at least,” he answers.

“What was his name? What does he look like?”

“I don’t know,” the Stable Boy answers. “He looks...normal. Nothing spectacular about him to me. He’s a little pale, I guess...” Stepping forward, the Stable Boy then says, “You’ve gone through Otabek and my Stories countless times over and over again. I don’t know why the witch or her son don’t show up, but I _know_ they are real. I _know_ we didn’t kill her and you can’t prove that we did...so why won’t you return my parents? Why won’t you let them _go?_ ”

Leroy hears that fire in the boy’s voice. It trembles out of his chest with his words, shaky but still ready to fight.

The Storyteller once again does not immediately answer. “It is true,” he says after a long pause, “I cannot prove that the woman was slaughtered by you, nor do we have the Hero’s testimony to verify just what happened that night. However, there are too many...unsettling things about the both of your Stories, and I intend to resolve them.”

“My parents had nothing to do with this! They didn’t deserve to die!”

“They gave their lives for their child. It is not what a parent should be asked to do, but it is always expected that should their child be in danger, they lay their lives down willingly,” the Storyteller says, leaning back into his chair. “But...I suppose I can come to a compromise on the matter...no, rather say, a request with a reward.”

The Storyteller opens his palm, and up rises an orb of light that gives off a red glow. It is hard to see, but when Leroy squints his eyes, he can see two small shadows in the orb’s core, writhing about and twisting themselves into oblong shapes.

“You and the Delinquent will go on a quest. You will find the truth of the beggar woman, the Hero, and her son. You will find him, and you will bring him to me. And, not only will I restore your parents’ lives, but I will invest unto them fifty years of youth restored. You both will live comfortably as Heroes in the Capital, and you shall have anything your heart desires,” the Storyteller says, spinning his words with the utmost precision.

Leroy always becomes thrown in awe at how the Storyteller speaks. Though the man is frightening in his appearance, his baritone and words are smooth and poised with elegance. He does not need to demand attention, his words take the eyes and ears of all who bear witness to hear him speak.

Out of the corner of his eye, Leroy sees the Stable Boy too has a look of hopeful wonder in his eyes transfixed on the orb. His lips are curling, twisting, like he is ready to cry a sob of pain, but withholds it and further smothers it down his throat.

“What do you want with her son?” the Delinquent speaks at last. Leroy turns, and finds that the other young man stares not at the orb of light in the Storyteller’s hand, but at the Storyteller’s face and the blood smeared over his mouth. “He has little to do with her death as we do. Gerhardt is the only person we need to hear the testimony from.”

The Storyteller’s eyes darken, and he breathes in deeply through his nose.

“It is of no concern to you what I shall do with the boy. However, know that if you choose to reject my offer of mercy in exchange for your compliance, then I shall have no problem snuffing out the last pitiful remains of both your Stories,” he says, closing his hand around the orb of light.

Leroy hears it, shrieks of pain and misery that echo from nowhere, growing louder and louder as the orb the Storyteller clutches begins to turn a smoldering black.

“Stop! _Stop!_ ” the Stable Boy croaks, falling to his knees. “We’ll find him! We’ll find him!”

The Storyteller releases his hold on the orb, and it disappears in a flash of light. The shrieks of pain are gone. An invisible wind moves through the space of the hall, whistling through the rafters and bellowing the drapes.

“Then go, young men,” the Storyteller says, smiling. “Go and seek the beggar woman’s son.”

He raises his hands and snaps his fingers. The chains turn to black dust in Leroy’s grasp, blowing away to merge with the darkness that sits under the Storyteller’s feet.

The Stable Boy gets to his feet first, and he turns without warning. The Royal Guard is the one that stops him from running out, gesturing towards the Delinquent still watching the Storyteller with untrusting eyes.

“Come on, you lot. Let’s find you horses,” he says, grabbing the Delinquent by the arm when it is clear he has no intention to move. The Royal Guard drags the two prisoners out; Leroy turns to follow, but he halts when he hears a quiet growl of his name.

Leroy turns, and it seems the Storyteller’s face looks even darker now. The pool of darkness begins to spill down the steps leading to his throne, inching towards Leroy with wiggling tendrils and hysteric shrieks.

“You will go with them,” the Storyteller speaks aloud. “You will find the beggar woman’s son. And when you do, you will slay the boy where he stands. Him, and anyone that is accompanying him.”

The darkness takes hold of Leroy’s foot, consuming his legs and then his torso. Leroy barely has the chance to scream, let alone produce a sound of absolute fear, as the darkness covers his eyes, his mouth, deafening his ears.

It’s cold.

It’s dark.

He can’t breathe.

_Mom...Dad...Isabella..._

And there, the darkness breaks.

Leroy gasps for air, and he sees the darkness melting off his body, revealing armor charred and black with a wicked red glow at the joints of his arms and legs. It looks like the armor Heroes wore in Stories told long, long ago. But instead of the pristine silver and white gold accents, it’s black. It’s wicked. It’s...it’s _horrible_.

He looks to the Storyteller, who is now nothing but a figure of darkness seated upon a tarnished throne. “Use that armor well, Boy,” the figure says, raising its hand towards Leroy. From it, a sword pulls its way out through the dark, the blade long and crafted from fine steel, while the hilt is finely crafted with gold and rubies embedded in its surface.

Leroy takes the sword. It’s heavy with power he’s never felt before in his life.

“...Why?” Leroy asks, and he flinches from his own words, eyes looking to the Storyteller with confusion, with fear.

The figure grows lax in the throne. “You see for yourself, Boy. I am growing weak. It is but a struggle to maintain the human form that you have grown complicit in seeing. And it all has to do with that boy.”

“...A mortal can take your power away, My Lord?” Leroy asks. The figure gives a disgusted click of his tongue.

“No mortal can _ever_ become stronger than me. I do not bow to the will of humans, they bow to _me_. And this boy threatens to upset the entire order of our Capital, _your_ home. I cannot leave this throne, or else I may lose what little strength I am barely holding onto. That is why you must fulfill my task for me, Boy. If you are a Hero, you will do your part in serving your Lord and your Capital by eradicating this threat.”

Leroy looks to the sword, to his reflection in the blade. His eyes - once a pure, boyish blue like the sky above - now have flecks of blood red in them. He immediately looks away, the sword trembling in his hold.

“You have your task,” the figure speaks. “Go with the Delinquent and the Stable Boy. And when you find the beggar woman’s son, you kill him where he stands, without a moment’s hesitation. Do that, and I shall reward your heroics with a crown and a throne and a country all your own to preside over as King.”

Leroy’s grip on the hilt of his sword tightens.

He swallows. He thinks of Isabella. He thinks about his destined true love.

“...Yes, My Lord,” Leroy responds, his voice small, and places the sword in the black sheath on his hip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry that I’m really slacking on the replies OTL also, still an idk when next update will be OTL x2


	7. In a World of My Own

"The Good Sir left days ago," Eilowny sighs, and it makes her words sound all the more dreamier. She walks like she is floating, her footfalls nonexistent compared to how Yuuri traipses up the path towards the ruins as all the villagers do around them.

Everyone has their faces painted; pinks and yellows and blues the most prominent colors. It’s rather garish, if Yuuri is being only honest with himself. He pulls his hood further over his head to hide the fact that his and Eilowny’s faces are clean of any paint or powder.

"Where is he going?" Yuuri asks. Eilowny sighs again, skipping over a rock in the path.

"He would not say. He’s a very secretive man. Never allowed me to know more than what was necessary, though he wouldn’t admit to that," responds Eilowny. She turns her nose towards the sky and sniffs the air. A smile comes to her pink lips, and she does a twirl. "Aurelia’s air always smells so nice," she fawns.

Yuuri has no comment to that. He thinks only about Victor.

The ground is warm beneath the heel of Yuuri’s boot, strangely. The inner rocks of the ruins release puffs of steam and smolder as the concession passes through. It doesn’t smell like anything is burning, yet there is still heat radiating deep and itching into the core of Yuuri’s gut.

"Where did you meet him?" Yuuri asks as they start an ascent up a grassy knoll, the light of the monument acting as a beacon to draw the concession close.

"It isn’t that I _met_ him. Rather, he helped me," Eilowny says, hands clasped at the sides of her lavender dress. "As a Maiden, it is within my Story to one day be rescued by a Hero and become their bride. We are tasked and trained with other young girls how to become a perfect lady, someone worthy of a Hero’s love...but it was there that I fell in love with someone that is not the Hero promised to me...but deep in my heart I know she is my true love."

Eilowny momentarily pauses, eyes wide with small alarm. "Oh, I apologize, Good Sir, but perhaps this isn’t the proper place to speak of my Story."

Her eyelids flutter as she speaks, looking around with slight pause. For what, Yuuri hasn’t a clue.

“It’s alright,” says Yuuri regardless. Eilowny’s smile is grateful.

The two approach a set of doors that stand tall and stretch to the marble alcoves of the corridor the procession quietly enters. There are torches ignited with a pink flame that smells not of smoke, but of a heavily scented perfume, flowery and intoxicating. Yuuri feels dizzy from the moment he passes through the doors, his steps going crooked.

Eilowny steadies him with gentle hands on his shoulders. “Are you alright, Good Sir?”

“I’m fine,” Yuuri says, pushing her hands away. He loses his balance again, stumbling against a blond haired man with a painted face of gold and silver.

The man holds to Yuuri’s waist. He smiles with all his teeth, the sparkle of his eyes something mischievous.

“Are you new to the Hawker and his Minstrel’s Tales?” he asks. Yuuri pulls away from the man, wrapping arms around himself. His vision blurs and smudges as the smell of perfume further clogs his lungs. The bodies around him sway like dandelions; a chorus of pleased sighs echoes in his ears.

“W-What’s happening?” Yuuri manages to choke out. There’s hands on his waist, firm like a man’s.

“Come now, it isn’t fun to spoil the surprise! One must enter a Minstrel’s Tale with fresh minds,” Yuuri hears the man with the Painted Face say. His voice is feathery and light, a gentle whisper against the shell of Yuuri’s ear. Yuuri’s throat is the savannah, his tongue useless in his mouth. He tries to struggle against the hands that lead him by his waist, but his legs feel like they are momentarily about to give out.

A hand takes his. It fits into his sweaty palm, the skin smooth and soft.

“Good Sir,” Eilowny’s voice sounds, but it sounds so distant like a far off echo. “Good Sir, will you be alright?”

Yuuri’s free hand goes to his mouth, holding in a gag. He swallows down bile and a glob of spit, forcing his posture into an upright position and ignoring the throb of pain in his temple as he does so.

“I’m fine,” Yuuri insists, but he does think he needs to sit down. The hands on his waist steer him up the steps and then down a long corridor. It’s narrow; the crowd of people immediately bunch in close together, a mass of heated bodies and their sweaty scent clogging the sickening smell of perfume.

“Almost to your seat, my friend,” the man says. Yuuri turns his head towards the man, feeling the other’s scruff against his cheek. The man has glassy looking eyes, pupils dilated so wide that Yuuri barely notices their blue hue. The man smells like sunflowers. He smiles brighter than the sun itself.

The corridor diverts three ways, and the man and Eilowny herd Yuuri to the right and up a set of stone stairs. The smell is not so dizzying anymore, and Yuuri feels his body becoming rigid with alarm. The others around him, however, still float along with their lackadaisical smiles.

Yuuri falls into a seat of stone and marble, uncomfortable but all that he has. Eilowny sits at his side, while the man with the painted face disappears with the others in the crowds that move past the two.

“Good Sir, will you be okay?” Eilowny asks again, and Yuuri hates the concern in her voice, though he’s not sure just what it is about it that makes his skin crawl with small agitation.

“I’m fine,” he repeats, breathing in the night air to further cleanse his lungs of the perfumed smell before. They’re in some sort of amphitheater, Yuuri realizes. The stage is centered and aglow with torches lit with a pink flame. There’s a crowd gathered close around it, swaying from side to side and singing something unrecognizable to Yuuri’s ears.

“It’s quite a sight, isn’t it?” Eilowny speaks when Yuuri doesn’t comment any further. She has her chin in her hands, and she lets out a lovesick sigh. “Aurelia is such a darling place to be. It’s so full of life when the Minstrels have their Tales.”

Yuuri’s lips purse mildly. “So, you know what is going on? What a Minstrel is and the Hawker?”

Eilowny eagerly nods. “Of course! What person _doesn’t_ know of the Minstrels and the Hawker?”

Yuuri averts his eyes.

The girl doesn’t seem to notice Yuuri’s discomfort as she continues, “The Hawker I’ve never personally spoken to, nor a Minstrel. But the people love them so dearly. Far more approachable than the Storyteller and the Capital citizens.”

“...The Hawker and the Minstrels...I know they aren’t like the Storyteller in terms of power, but they still deal with handling Stories, don’t they?” Yuuri asks, throat feeling strangely dry. “Is...is it possible to ask about another person’s Story through them?”

“You wish to know the Story of the Other Good Sir?” Eilowny asks, blinking her wide eyes at him. She smiles. “I suppose it wouldn’t be too far-fetched, but I do not believe neither the Hawker nor a Minstrel can look into the Stories of persons that are not present.”

Eilowny leans forward, searching the crowd with squinting eyes, until she sits upright with eagerness and points a finger out towards the audience seated to the left of the stage.

The cluster of people is seated up higher than those that crowd around the stage on the ground level. Notably, the area is boxed off with walls of pink marble and gold accents, their seats made of silk cushions. It’s hard to tell from the distance where Yuuri sits, but they don’t look like anyone special, just as plain and simple as all the other villagers and townsfolk around them.

"Those are the ones the Hawker found their Stories to be quite intriguing. The Minstrels will present themselves on the stage and put on a Tale of each person’s Story, after which, the Hawker will decide if they are worth of an Encore."

Yuuri stares at the crowd for a long while. He’s feeling rather drained for some odd reason...he thinks he needs to lie down.

"E-Excuse me," stammers Yuuri, and he rises to his feet. His knees buckle momentarily, but he remains standing. Eilowny rises to follow him, but Yuuri gestures for her to wait with his hand. "It’ll only be a moment," he reassures, his smile on his lips not full. But, he doesn’t allow for Eilowny to protest the matter; the lights of the stage begin to dim and a hush falls over the crowd.

Yuuri quietly shuffles away from his seat and back down the set of stone stairs. He holds his breath when he gets near the corridor, as to prepare for the onslaught of perfume choking his lungs. But to his surprise and mild confusion, the air is clean of any scent. Not sweat, not smoke, nothing at all.

He takes a breath and shudders an uneasy sigh, before he enters the corridor and makes a left.

There’s a rumble of applause that starts in quiet, then crescendos to a roar that the walls of the corridor quake from the sound. It’s empty of people, his footsteps the only sound when the noise of the crowd above subsides.

The innkeeper was right. There’s no one for Yuuri to speak to about leaving Aurelia, not until the Minstrels and the Hawker are done.

Yuuri sighs, rounding the corner of the passage where there is different set of stone steps leading up into the amphitheater. As he places his foot upon the steps, the thick clogging smell of perfume hits him square in the face, knocking the wind out of his lungs.

There’s a gentle voice that coos from nowhere. “ _Why are you out of your seat, little puppy?_ ”

Yuuri turns around, expecting a person to whom that scent belongs to, but finds that he is the only one on the stairwell. He hears the voice chuckle, amused. “Such a pretty little thing. Are you lost?”

“W-Who are - where are -“

“ _Come, little puppy. I wouldn’t want you to miss the Tale._ ”

And there’s a sudden gust of wind that bellows from behind Yuuri, forcing him up the steps before he has the chance to move or comprehend the disembodied voice.

He is thrust up to the top of the stairs and into a different section of the amphitheater. It’s different than the one that he and Eilowny were seated; the scent of perfume is _dreadfully_ stronger here and smothering Yuuri’s lungs. There’s also a glittering of gold and jewels and light from the pink flames that light the torches around the proscenium. Below him, he sees the people Eilowny pointed out to him from before.

And above Yuuri, he sees a man seated upon a throne.

The man is covered with face paint as the townsfolk are, his lips a bright pink and golden swirls around his almond-shaped eyes. He’s tall; even though he is seated in the throne, Yuuri can tell the man stands taller than most people of the villagers Yuuri’s seen so far.

The man is looking right at Yuuri. He’s smiling.

“ _Come here, little puppy. There are no seats for you down there._ ” Yuuri hears the voice say, even though he does not see the man’s pink lips move to form the words.

A push of wind from behind, and Yuuri is tripping, falling, stumbling over his feet as he gets drawn towards the man seated atop his throne. The force of the current only stops when Yuuri is mere inches away from the man’s feet, the scent of perfume choking his lungs and strong enough to make a burn of tears at the corners of his eyes.

“ _You are not from around here_ ,” the voice surmises, resting his chin against his knuckles.

Yuuri tries to speak, but he coughs before he is able to produce a string of words.

“I’m - I’m sorry. I’ll return to my seat. I don’t mean to distract you-“

“ _You’re such a pretty thing,_ ” the voice coos, and the man pats at a spot to the right of his throne, currently vacated. “ _Sit next to me._ ”

Yuuri doesn’t feel he has the ability to refuse; just a second’s hesitation is enough for Yuuri to feel the wind currents licking at the back of his thighs, his back, urging him onto his feet and to shove him forward. Wordlessly, he nods, and awkwardly tiptoes his way towards the seat.

It’s a beautiful view of the proscenium, and there is currently a man that takes the center stage bathed in gold and white light. Yuuri recognizes him immediately as the man from before with the painted face, his clothing like a golden jester with silver bells at the cuffs of his pantaloons.

"Welcome all!" He greets with a booming voice. "We’re all here for a Tale, yeah?!"

There’s an eruption of noise - cheering, laughter, screams - in conjunction with another burst of that perfume hitting Yuuri’s nose. He covers his mouth with his palms and coughs. At his side, the man gives a curious glance, but does not speak a word.

"Then I - your Host for this wondrous evening - shall bring to you the entertainment!" He boasts, taking his right arm to make a wide swipe of the air in front of him.

In a flash of pink, blue and white light, there are three figures that stand on the stage with the Host. Or rather, there are three more copies of the Host, but their outfits are in different shades of pinks and blues and silvers. The chorus of noise grows to a deafening level. The smell of perfume is the strongest it’s ever been.

"So!" the Host shouts, taking the center of the formation, the blue copy to his left and the pink copy to his right. He gestures towards the silver copy of himself, who stands to the edge of the proscenium where the villagers scream and cry and raise their hands up towards him like they are their God. "Shall we hear a story of excitement? Of daring feats? Of the prince who abandoned his kingdom and seeks glory?!"

The silver figure shifts as the Host says his words, into a body that is small and lean, dressed in ornate azure fabric that drapes over their figure. Their skin darkens, and as they turn for all the crowd to see, to Yuuri’s horror, the figure has no face.

" _Do not be so alarmed, sweet little puppy,_ " the voice coos as Yuuri stifles his gasp of surprise. He turns to look at the man on his throne, not watching the activities on the stage, but choosing to intensely stare at Yuuri. " _A Minstrel always takes the shape of the Tale’s protagonist and their co-stars. After all, they play such an important part in the Story that we are all so interested to hear_."

The crowd cheers and jeers as the silver Minstrel prances around on the stage to their noise, gesturing towards the audience with perky waves of his hands and high kicks of his feet. The Host allows them too, before he laughs and then gestures to the pink Minstrel.

This one approaches the edge of the stage with a sultry sway in their hips, the pink fabric falling off of their broad shoulders as the glow of the torches illuminates their body for the audience to see.

"Or maybe! We should start the night with something more passionate! The story of how a nymph seduced all those privy to his eyes and his dance!" the Host bellows, and at once, the Minstrel shifts into another form. Small and lithe, with freckles that are like constellations against his creamy skin, a pink satin wrapped around his body and tied into a knot at the hip.

The crowds whistle and hoot as the man coyly smiles. He goes into his dance, twirling on the balls of his feet before he rockets upwards onto his toes. His arms fan up and back, like the wings of a swan about to take flight. Then, his back arches into a beautiful curve, and with the smallest curl of his fingers, he demands for all those that watch him to draw closer, closer, even _closer_.

In the midst of the jeers and the laughs and whistles from the audience, the blue Minstrel meanders their way to the front.

Their presence is smaller than the other two, and they hang their head with pity. Their shoulders are pathetically slumped down, and their knees are knocked together, toes pointed inwards as the take their spot on the stage.

The Host laughs with the crowd as the torches dim to a soft smolder, and he gestures towards the Minstrel with a carefree hand.

"Or perhaps, we should start with something sorrowful. An Encore of a previous tale with a character we have seen _so many times,_ " the Host drolls. The Minstrel takes their shape then, and where once was blue is now sheathed and covered by a flowing red garment that is all too familiar.

The Minstrel grows taller, a swath of silver hair crowing from their head as they turn with a proud and confident stride. And though they are faceless, Yuuri knows, he knows the figure that now stands with the red cloak draped around their broad shoulders is meant to be Victor.

There’s a chuckle at Yuuri’s side the second that Victor’s name escapes Yuuri’s lips in the form of a gasp. It sounds very amused. “ _Little puppy,_ ” the voice says, “ _is that a familiar treat?_ ”

Yuuri words trap in his throat, embarrassment making his eyes flutter down to where his hands wring the bottom ends of the cloak he has tightly wrapped around him. The man on the throne gives another chuckle, before he raises his hand and a hush falls over the crowd.

“We will hear the Encore first,” the man speaks, and it’s strange at how different the voice that comes from his lips is different than the one Yuuri has been hearing in his head. It’s a deeper voice that projects out the man’s throat, rougher around the edges compared to the light and higher-pitched disembodied one. Alarmed, Yuuri glances around in hopes of seeing another owner of the voice, but comes up short.

The Host nods his head, bowing to the man on the throne.

“Of course, My Lord! You always have such an eye for Tales!”

The audience erupts in a coo of sighs and fawns and agreeing chirps.

“Yes! Of course! We’d love to hear the Encore!”

“The Hawker is so amazing! He is so kind to give us such entertainment!”

“We want to hear the Tale! Please, please, please!”

Yuuri feels his breath leave him as he hears the man chuckle again, only the sound is mixed with both the deep registrar and the high pitched tone.

“ _Aren’t they just the most precious thing?_ ” the voice asks Yuuri as the two other Minstrels clear the stage in flashes of pink and white light, and the Host saunters over towards the booth of special guests, to where a woman stands proud and eager to get onto the stage.

“...So you’re the Hawker,” Yuuri responds.

“ _Yes, sweet puppy. Does this startle you?_ ”

Yuuri shakes his head in denial, avoiding eye contact. The Hawker chuckles again. “ _You’re so cute. You’re so pretty_ ,” the voice says, just as Yuuri feels two fingertips run down the nape of his neck and in between his shoulder blades. He jumps with alarm and with a loud, shrill squeak. The Hawker smiles. “ _Such a pretty little puppy. I want to have you._ ”

“I-I really should head back to my own seat,” Yuuri stammers, trying to step away.

“ _No. Stay._ ”

The wind starts again, and Yuuri struggles against the current. He gets knocked onto his rear end, held down by what feels like gravity pushing his body against the pink stone steps.

“P-Please, I just want to go-“

“I said,” the Hawker speaks with the deep voice, and the makeup on his face darkens to a sickeningly yellow, a stripe of black moving over his eyes as his pupils turn a dim shade of red. Blackened veins make their presence known against the soft curve of his face down the hollow of his throat, and his lips lose their color to take on a dark, black shade. “ **Stay**.”

The perfume smell is gone. And now in it’s place, Yuuri smells smoke, brimstone, hellfire. Though the winds on his body are heavy, he is able to tilt his head up just high enough to see that the entire crowd is watching him, the Minstrel and the Host as well. The expressions of the villagers are filled with detest and disgust, lips curled in sneers and noses wrinkled. The Minstrel still wears a blank mask where Victor’s face should be, but the slump of his shoulders return where they should be held with pride. The Host’s eyes are soft with pity, with anxiousness.

Eventually, the winds disappear, and the Hawker leans back into his throne as Yuuri staggers to his feet. His legs feel wobbly, and he uselessly flops back up onto the seat he tried to flee from. The Hawker’s face immediately shifts from the dark to the bright color palette, smiling with bliss. “ _Such a good, sweet little puppy,_ ” he says, and gestures with his hand. “Continue the Tale! Let’s hear the Encore!”

The crowd erupts into cheers. The Host immediately regains his cheerful character.

“Of course, My Lord! Anything for you!” He says with a smile that stretches so far across his face, Yuuri thinks it might break. “Without further ado, we shall hear the Encore of Miss Duvall.”

The Hawker claps. After hesitating, Yuuri claps too when he sees the Hawker look to him expectantly.

The woman - Miss Duvall, apparently - is curvaceous and dressed far more elegant than the crowd of villagers she exited from, youth in her face and in her coral pink smile. There’s a bounce in her step that rattles the jewelry she wears on her wrists and in her ears, making the curls of her golden hair bounce as she approaches the Minstrel on stage.

Wordlessly, the Minstrel offers a hand towards her. She takes it, and there’s a flash of soft blue light and a cold wind that snuffs out all the burning torches.

_I was considered the most beautiful woman in town when I met that stranger._

A crack of light, and the proscenium is ignited with a golden glow. There’s a backdrop of a city with tall buildings made of golden brick and a fountain in the center of the stage. Miss Duvall stands front and center, in the arms of the Minstrel as Victor, holding her close to his body strong and possessive.

_I am a Dancer. My Story is neither plain nor extravagant. I entertain noblemen and ladies in the Capital. I keep Heroes company on their long journeys if they should ever pass through my town. I thought that was what he was. A Hero so dashing in his red cloak and charming smile._

The Minstrel twirls Miss Duvall and as she spins, she starts to glow. Light emanates from her body from within, making her brighter than anything on the stage and forcing everyone’s attention as she dances around the fountain to a symphony of unseen harps and violins.

_He had ensnared me with just one look. I had to be his and his only. But alas, this was a man that could not love anyone._

At these gentle words, Miss Duvall hurtles herself towards the Minstrel. And with an over dramatic furl of the red cloak, the Minstrel vanishes into thin air and the stage is placed into darkness once more.

_I had went to see who this man was. What was his name? What was his Story? What was his purpose of him being in my town and did our Stories somehow intertwine?_

Another crack of light, and Miss Duval stands with another figure shrouded in a black cloak. Something stings horribly in Yuuri’s heart at the sight of the figure, hunched over and trembling as they pantomime speech with their wrinkled hands. Yuuri brings his fingertips to touch at the ring hanging from his neck, then immediately drops his hand back into his lap as he hears the Hawker sigh with interest.

“ _Is he a lover of yours?_ ” the Hawker asks, not even paying attention to the Tale.

“No,” Yuuri answers, uncomfortably slouching in his seat.

“ _That’s a shame. You’re such a pretty little thing. I would love to have you as my lover._ ” The Hawker reaches a hand out to touch Yuuri again, this time a hand carding through Yuuri’s hair around the shape of his head.

Yuuri pulls away, feeling sick. “Please. I just want to go,” he says, and the words tremble from his lips. The Hawker frowns.

“ _But I am providing entertainment. Why would you want to miss my Tales?_ ” the Hawker asks, then his face darkens again. “Why are you not appreciating my gifts?”

“I - I just-“ Yuuri swallows his fear, looking the Hawker straight in his eyes. “I’m supposed to be on my way to the Capital. To see the Storyteller and...and ask to see my Story-“

The Hawker brightens immediately. “ _Oh sweet little puppy! You have no need to visit my brother when **I** am here!_ ”

He raises his hand. “Stop!” His voice booms, and the chorus of music stop as the torches are reignited with the pink flame. The set on the stage melts away into blue dust that is carried on the wind. The Minstrel takes on their blue shape, shoulders slumped in anxious worry as the Host hurries back onto the stage with a terse smile.

“I-Is there something wrong, My Lord?” The Host asks. The Hawker shakes his head, and he stands from his throne. He’s large. He’s frighteningly large.

“I have found a new Tale I wish to see. It should be quite entertaining. A Tale that is fresh and brand new, not seen or speculated upon since our night has began!”

The Host turns to Miss Duvall, who still stands on the stage sans glow, eyes wide with fear. “But...pardon, My Lord, but she is an Encore. We need to-“

“And I have awarded her many years for being such fine entertainment to my people. But, there are so many times I can hear a Tale without it feeling a bit...stale,” the Hawker sighs with displeasure, wrinkling his nose. He takes a step forward, and though Yuuri now wishes to remain in his seat, a gust of wind forces him up and against the Hawker’s side.

“We have heard this Tale of the Vagrant, the Mystery Man, the Playboy, the Hero. This Man - whoever he is - plague the lady’s Tales, and with every Encore, she promises to tell us more on who he is. Yet, she never rewards us. She keeps us hanging on our toes. And I am getting bored.”

The Hawker rests his hand on Yuuri’s shoulder, the weight and feel of it hot and heavy.

“I think it is time for a new Tale, yes? I have found someone that might shed more light on the Mystery Man than what a silly little Dancer from a nobody town has to offer in her Tale.”

The crowds part for them. They bow their heads as they pass. They whisper their praises and adoration and love as the Hawker takes Yuuri onto the stage and into the warm glow of the torches. “Tell his Tale,” the Hawker demands, offering Yuuri forward with a hand that itches down to the small of Yuuri’s back, “I want to see it.”

The Host looks to Yuuri, then to the Hawker, then to Miss Duvall.

He turns back to the Hawker, and furiously nods his head. “Y-Yes! Of course, My Lord! You have such impeccable taste. What would we do if you weren’t here to tell us these things!”

The audience parrot the Host’s response: ‘Yes!’ And ‘Thank you, My Lord!’ And ‘We’re so lucky to be blessed with the Hawker’s Tale!’

The Hawker beams and takes a round of congratulatory bows.

The Host turns to Miss Duvall. “I-I’m dreadfully sorry, but be assured that the Encore is still in affect for one more year,” he says, resting a hand upon the woman’s shoulder.

Yuuri sees it happen in an instant: the rosy color of the woman’s skin turns bland and pale, the gold of her hair turns wiry and grey. Her curves sag and her clothing droops in unflattering places. Her eyes dim as crows feet etch themselves at the corners.

“N-No, I’m not ready,” she stammers, and her voice is scratchier than the voice Yuuri heard narrating the Tale, yet still somehow the same.

“I’m truly sorry,” the Host says with a pained smile. “But if you find us a better Tale, we will be _quite glad_ to have you.”

“P-Please! I have others! I can keep you entertained! I can keep _them_ entertained! What does that boy know?!” She cries as the pink and white Minstrel appear in flashes of light, hooking their arms around hers to cautiously escort her off the stage.

The crowd cheers, but its all mindless noise from where Yuuri stands in the light’s glow. The Hawker smiles to Yuuri, and then moves off to the side.

“ _Please entertain me, sweet puppy. You will appreciate my love soon_.”

And there is darkness.

Yuuri screams.

“No, no no no!” A voice hurriedly echoes in Yuuri’s ear, and he sees the Host appear in front of him, the Minstrels circling around Yuuri in blurs of pink and white and blue. Up close, the Host’s face is human and soft, the blue’s of his eyes gentler than Yuuri remembered from before. “It’s okay, yeah? You’re fine. You’re not going to get hurt. Just relax.”

Yuuri looks around, the rise and fall of his shoulders quickening as he sees how vast and bleak the darkness surrounding them is.

“W-Where are we? I-I’m not supposed to be here. I just want to go home. I just want to go _home_ -“

“You cannot leave until the Tale is complete or until the Hawker says ‘Stop’,” the Host informs with an unfortunate smile. “The Tale has begun, so the show must go on as they say, ahaha...”

Yuuri twiddles his hands, bites at his lower lip and shuffles from foot to foot.

“I - I don’t know how this works. What do I do? How do I get out of here?” Yuuri asks. The Host nods his head and the Minstrels slowly gather in close.

“It is _very_ simple, my friend,” the Host begins. “A Tale is just a memory. Anything from your Story you want to share, you just have to think of it. My friends and I will do _all_ the heavy lifting for you, okay? It’s _very_ easy.”

The Host gives Yuuri’s shoulder a good natured clap. His hand is warm, and with his touch comes a scent of sunflowers that floats into Yuuri’s nose, yet doesn’t choke him like the perfume did. “Now, what memory do you want to think of? A happy one?” He gestures to the white Minstrel - “or a sad one?” He gestures to the blue Minstrel. “Or maybe you perhaps _lusted_ after this Mystery Man and-“

“N-No!” Yuuri blurts, cheeks hot. “I-I only met him one time. It’s not like I _know_ him outside of my drawings and-“

The darkness around him distorts for a split second. Yuuri makes a noise of alarm, his body going rigid as it feels like the ground is moving from beneath him.

“Okay! W-We’ll go with that! We don’t want to keep the Hawker waiting. Just - just take your time with the memory, okay? Do not jump forward in memory or backwards since you’re still a novice-“

“But I don’t know what I’m doing!”

“Just think about your Story!”

“But I don’t _have-_ ”

The Host and the Minstrels disappear in cracks of light, and Yuuri is back on the stage, seated on the ground.

The audience is drawn close to the stage from where Yuuri is seated, all of their eyes on him. Sprawled around Yuuri is pictures, crayon and pencil drawings of Victor. When Yuuri looks to his left and his right and behind him, he sees the walls of his room, covered with Victor’s image in pencil and acrylic ink.

Warmth fills Yuuri’s lungs at the sight. He didn’t realize how badly he missed his room until he sees it all around him like this.

_My friend!_

Yuuri jumps at the noise, glancing around for the Host, but not seeing him anywhere in sight.

_Words! Words, my friend! You need to say **something**!_

“O-Oh, um. I - I-“

_No, no! Think them! And project! Project!_

Yuuri purses his mouth, glancing down at the drawings. He reaches out to touch one, and it feels real as he holds it carefully in his grasp. A picture of Victor standing in a field of flowers, his hair long and silvery, fluttering in an invisible breeze trapped in time.

...’I drew this when I was seven. After I dreamed about Victor the very first time.’

Yuuri’s voice echoes around him, loud as if there were hundreds of him speaking aloud the sentence.

_I see, I see. And how did that make you feel?_

'Happy. He was so handsome. I’ve never seen a person like him before...I’ve never seen much of anyone. My mother was so protective of me. She forbade me from leaving our tower, and if I were to go with her to the village square, it will only be for a short amount of time’.

Yuuri cradles the drawing to his chest, against his heart.

'I don’t know why I dreamed of Victor so much. But I can’t deny that whoever he is to me, a muse or...or maybe someone more...he’s special’.

_Did your mother know about your feelings for him?_

Yuuri shakes his head. ‘No. I thought about telling her, but it wasn’t like I understood the dreams either. What would I say to her? That I’ve fallen in love with someone I’ve never met?’

There’s a sound of a door opening from behind him. Yuuri turns, and in shuffles in a small figure shrouded in black, smelling sweet of roses like his mother used to smell like.

The shock makes Yuuri go paralyzed in his spot.

_It is just a Minstrel, my friend. Do not be alarmed. Go on, go on._

But Yuuri doesn’t. He stares as the figure comes closer to him, matching the hobbling gait his mother had as they approach. The sway of her shawl is hypnotic, her grey hair spilling out from the opening though Yuuri cannot see her face. He sits on his knees, throat painfully dry and lips parted to utter something, _anything_.

The figure points at the drawing in Yuuri’s hand. “May I see it, My Dearest?” they ask with that same gentle voice.

Yuuri chokes. “M-Mother?”

_No, no. My friend, it’s not real. Please, you need to continue the Tale._

Yuuri gets to his feet, and the figure stands the same height as his mother did. They tilt their face upwards, and where Yuuri thought it would be a blank slate like with Victor, there are the soft wrinkles of her nose and her mouth curled into a smile. He sees himself reflected in her eyes, warm and inquiring and-

“My Dearest,” the figure says, reaching out to touch Yuuri’s hand tightly clutching the drawing. “You are not safe here.”

Yuuri feels a coldness at the back of his neck. “W- _What?_ ”

“You need to run. You need to leave this town right away,” she says with urgency Yuuri has never heard before in her voice. There’s a glow that starts to shine beneath her skin in the same way that Miss Duvall glowed within her own Tale. But this glow seems to be even brighter, even more blinding.

“W-Why? Mother, what’s going on? Why are you here?”

“Escape this place, My Dearest. Before they find out who you are.”

“But what are you _talking about?_ What do you mean? Who am _I?_ ”

Yuuri brings his hands to touch at his mother’s shoulders, a tremble in his body and his bones as the chill starts to swallow his body whole. “M-Mother, I saw you - I saw you de-“

And as quickly as Yuuri has that horrible thought, the scenery around him changes.

There’s blood. There’s blood all over his hands, his shirt. It’s scent clogs his lung and everything around him is dark, cold, _miserable_.

His mother’s body lies at his feet, bleeding out from the neck and the stomach where she was stabbed. Her eyes are devoid of any life and stare blankly up at him; the glow beneath her skin remains.

“No,” Yuuri chokes, shaking his head, stepping backwards. “No. No, no _nonononono_!”

His back collides with something warm and broad, and a pair of arms wrap firmly around his midsection and squeezes.

“Mine,” a voice hisses in his ear as a hand goes around Yuuri’s throat. “You’re mine. You’re _mine. You’re mine!_ ”

Yuuri tries to scream, tries to choke out a breath or a cry for ‘help’. The hand tightens around his windpipe further, while the scent of blood becomes the only thing Yuuri can smell.

_You’re letting your memory run away, my friend! It isn’t real! None of it is real!_

Yuuri claws at the hand around his throat, jerking his foot back to kick the figure in the shin. It isn’t real. It isn’t real. But god, it feels real. It smells real. It feels _so real._

“End it! Let me out! _Let me out!_ ” Yuuri screams upwards into the darkness.

_I - I can’t! The Tale - it isn’t finished!_

“I’m finished! Let me out! Le-“ the hand chokes Yuuri further, and the weight of the body behind him suddenly presses down on his back. A wetness seeps into the back of Yuuri’s cloak, the bloody stench strong enough to make Yuuri want to vomit.

_No, a proper ending! It has to be a proper conclusion!_

“Let me out! _Let me out! **Let me out!!**_ ”

Yuuri thrusts his hand forward and with it, blindly claws at the air in front of him.

And he hears it, a deep and loud shout of ‘Stop!’.

The darkness is gone, as the stage becomes illuminated once again. The figure immediately releases their hold around Yuuri’s neck, and Yuuri collapses into the arms of another. Their arms wind around Yuuri possessively, and the scent of sweet perfume enters Yuuri’s nose once again.

Through his eyelashes, Yuuri looks up and around, the blue Minstrel on the ground at his side, the white Minstrel standing behind him, and the Hawker holding him close. The man is smiling coyly at Yuuri, the red of his eyes dark.

“I knew it,” he says. “Only one person reacted the way you did to my perfume.” The Hawker grabs Yuuri by his face, stooping down low to Yuuri’s eye level. “And though I can’t feel her presence, I can smell her stink all over you.”

He smiles. “Tell me, sweet little puppy, who was your mother?”

His mother’s words echo in his head: _Run, My Dearest! Run!_

Yuuri tries to break away with a wild flail of his arms, stumbling back into the Minstrel. He doesn’t hesitate, and his legs pick up speed for Yuuri to take a flying leap off the stage and into the crowd of watchers.

“Don’t let him get away! Anyone that catches him will be rewarded an Encore of one hundred years!” The Hawker yells as Yuuri stumbles and pushes his way down the steps. At this, the crowd electrifies with hostility and excitement, grabbing at Yuuri’s cloak.

“Come here, you little brat! You’re ruining the Tale!” A crowd of men jeer, yanking Yuuri towards them. Yuuri pulls forward, feeling the clasp of the cloak strangling at his throat. The material is pulled, stretched, and Yuuri can sense that it is about to tear.

With regret, he closes his eyes and lurches forward in resistance.

The cloak tears at the end, upwards into a jagged rip that leaves a chunk of the bottom pleats with the angry crowd. Yuuri catches his footing as he falls forward and away, and he runs as fast as he can.

There is only one exit out of the arena, through the corridors that become swarmed with the crowd of angry villagers screaming after him. Eilowny is lost in the crowd; Yuuri doesn’t dare to try and stop and look for her, only hoping that she managed to get out of the frenzy like he is trying to.

He finds the set of stairs that lead him into the maze of pathways and narrow passages, stumbling over them as he goes up and out into the warm night air. The ground beneath his feet is hotter now, like there’s a fire about to erupt if Yuuri doesn’t move quick enough. The beautiful pink stone of the monument is now a black ore; gone too is the scent of perfume, while the putrid smell of something burning is now what fills the air.

Yuuri escapes down into an alleyway, heading into the direction of Ketty’s Inn. The mob, although large, is rather slow in their pursuit as they filter out of the Hawker’s arena and into the streets of the town. As Yuuri hides among a pile of garbage and crates, he listens to the sound of their footsteps charging past him. He listens to the sounds of their shouts, their curses, their deluded cheers of how pleased the Hawker will be if they catch the ‘Brat’. He even sees the men run past him with the piece of his cloak gripped in one man’s fist. Yuuri desperately wants it back.

When the coast is clear, Yuuri continues onward towards Ketty’s Inn, running with his head whipping from left to right to check for anyone that might have spotted him.

The torches are all snuffed out, and there is no light coming from within the cottage that smells of moss and trees. Yuuri knocks again, the sound frantic and loud and desperate for someone to open. He repeats the knock three times with barely any pause in between. As he is about to knock for a fourth time, the door opens and Yuuri gets yanked inside by a wrinkled hand.

The old woman is holding a lantern with her other hand, Yuuri’s basket hanging on her wrist.

“Oh,” she says, her voice taking on a lilt of innocence, “You’re back so early! Where is the young lady?”

“I - I need my dog. We need to go. We need to go _right now_ ,” Yuuri urges, taking his basket from the woman. He looks over his shoulder at the front door, and through the window, he sees the glow of lit torches moving down the road past the inn.

“Oh my,” the elderly woman sighs, pinching at Yuuri’s cloak. “It’s ruined.”

“ _Please_ ,” Yuuri urges, throwing another look over his shoulder. There’s a bright glow that starts to shine through the window from outside. It’s only one lantern that is lit, but Yuuri sees two and three and four more approaching from down the road the longer that he stands here and wait.

The old woman turns without a word being uttered, and she shuffles off into the dark recesses of the room, the sound of her feet dragging against the hardwood floor growing faint as she disappears into the shadows. With no time for hesitancy, Yuuri follows after her.

She enters a room that is tucked away beneath the stairwell, and resting on the ground in a pile of leaves and satin, Vicchan is curled up in a small ball.

The puppy jumps at the sight of Yuuri in the room’s doorway, scampering to Yuuri’s feet to rub his body against Yuuri’s ankles. Relief washes over Yuuri immediately, and he scoops the puppy into his arms.

Yuuri gives a displeased wrinkle of his nose. If anything, Vicchan smells _worse_ than when Yuuri left him at the beginning of the night.

The woman clears away the leaves and the satin, revealing a small door in the floor. She pulls on the rope to unlock the hatch, opening the door wide so Yuuri can peer down into a dark tunnel that goes deep beneath the Earth’s soil.

"This will take you someplace safe that no one will dare to follow you," the woman speaks, and she is already urging Yuuri to the hole. "Go down here and escape. It will take you to the edge of the Wastes."

"But I need to go to the Capital and-" the woman clutches tight to Yuuri’s arm, her fingernails digging harshly into the meat of his wrist.

"Whatever you do," she says with a hoarse voice and shining red eyes, "do _not_ go to the Capital. Do not go until you have reunited with your true love, lest you die at the hands of the Storyteller and his wicked fate."

Yuuri’s eyes widen. "What? What do you mean? What do you know about me?" he asks, moving away from the hole he was being steered towards and back to the old woman.

There’s a sound of angry fists banging at the front door. "Ketty!" a voice, angry and loud booms. "Old haggard! Are you hiding the Brat?!"

The elderly woman ignores the shouts while Yuuri jumps with alarm. She reaches out with her wrinkled hands and takes hold of Vicchan’s paw, bowing her head low.

"I wish you and the boy all the best on your travels. Please, return Our Rightful Ruler back to us," she breathes in a quiet whimper.

"What do you mean? What’s going on?"

The woman looks up at him, and it’s like Yuuri sees years of aging melt away from her features in one tilt of her head. Her eyes shine like rubies, her skin healthy and white like milk. She parts her lips that are now a gentle shade of pink, and her voice that comes from her throat is gentle and soft.

"Reclaim your throne, Storyteller," she says, and without warning pushes Yuuri back.

Yuuri stumbles, his back foot falling into the hole followed by the rest of his body.

He sees the woman’s face regain that old facade of wrinkles and wiry hair, but she is smiling down at him as he falls down down down.

Then, she closes the door, and there is nothing but darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I consider this to be the halfway mark for the fic. We’ll see when the next update will be, finals are coming OTL


	8. Trust in Me

In the Capital - atop his blackened throne - the Storyteller seethes.

"You _lost_ him?" he growls through clenched teeth, his jaw rigid. Before him, the apparition of the Hawker cowers from the sound, the bright fabrics of robes glimmering as he quakes in his boots.

"They found a hole inside of a haggard woman’s inn that he must have disappeared into. From the horrid smell, it must lead to the Wastes. I can’t go there, Brother. It’s _awful_ there, just _awful_ ," the Hawker bemoans.

"It is nothing but a wasteland. The boy would have nowhere to hide. And even perhaps if he did, no mortal would last longer than three days in the misery of Little Sister and the graveyard of souls. He would escape immediately, especially if Sister is somewhere near him to force him out."

"He came to the Tale with a girl," the Hawker offers. "She doesn’t have Sister’s scent, but she isn’t where she ought to be according to the Story you told of her, Dear Brother."

He says the words so smugly, the curve of his smile red and pulled across his face in a way that makes the Storyteller desire to peel it off with his blunt nails.

"What is her name, if you wish to act like you are so high and mighty when your hoard of fools couldn’t catch one single peasant boy," the Storyteller growls as the darkness pools at his feet.

"No need to tell you, Dear Brother," the Hawker continues with a singsong voice. "I already know why she is freed from the tower that was meant to imprison her until her gallivant Hero came to rescue her, according to your Story, of course."

The darkness seeps down the steps leading to the throne, dripping and oozing a sludge that is putrid and vile, bubbling with rage as it draws near the Hawker.

"And _what_ , pray tell, is the reason for that, _Dear Little Brother_?" the Storyteller asks in a low gravely voice.

"The Vagrant that you cannot seem to find rescued her," the Hawker says, and he does so with a mocking glee and a deviant sparkle in his eyes, shining like rubies freshly polished. "And now the girl is off to live her Story the way she wishes, with another Maiden that has strayed from your _all knowing words_.”

“ ** _ENOUGH!_** ” the Storyteller yells, and the hall rumbles with the sound of his voice as it screeches up to the alcoves above, rattling the glass windows that paint themselves black as the darkness consumes every surface and inch.

The Hawker’s apparition turns his feet inwards, knees knocking together and teeth pulling the bottom of his lip into his mouth.

“Do you _forget_ that it is _I_ who gave you that power that you flaunt and misuse for your own amusement? You are nothing but a jester playing king. Do not think you can speak to me however you wish, lest I take that power of yours and rip it out of your chest along with your fickle heart,” the Storyteller hisses, now nothing but a shadow of a figure that stands from its throne, red eyes glowing malevolent and bright.

“You said that she was gone,” the Hawker snaps back, his voice a pathetic warble, his fear trying its damnedest not to show, "you said that her Champion was dead. Yet now, the boy with Sister’s scent is headed towards the Capital for you, Brother. And if what I believe about the Vagrant is correct, then if he and the boy should cross paths, it will not do you any good."

Looking properly at the Storyteller, the Hawker then says, "You’ve grown weak, Brother...when was the last time that you saw a newborn’s Story?"

The figure does not answer.

The Hawker hums. It’s a nonchalant tone. "Ahh, but there hasn’t been a child born in recent years, has there? It would be too much work for you to leave the Capital in the state you’re in now. It’s far more easier to blanket a spell of infertility over the populace.” With a sigh, the Hawker’s image begins to fade into the darkness.

“How will you protect yourself now, Brother?” His voice asks, barely sounding like a whisper on the breeze. “The boy will come. The moment he sets foot in this palace with his Champion at his side, it will be over for us both.”

“No,” the figure growls even as the apparition of the Hawker disappears into nothingness. It’s pitch black inside the hall, the glow of the figure’s eyes the only source of light. “No, no _no, no ,_ ** _nonono!_** ”

And for the entire night, the palace walls shook with an unknown fury that startled its inhabitants. The evening air carried upon its winds hisses of contempt and disgust. The golden glow of the Capital - for the first time in centuries - snuffed itself out. And with that, the Capital looked dull, plain, an empty shell of what was once bright and beautiful and so coveted by all.

The citizens spoke not a word of that night. For the Storyteller knows all and all he ever spake is the truth.

There was no need to worry.

No need at all.

 

* * *

 

“How much longer?” Leroy asks with a groan, adjusting the reins of his horse. Ahead of him, Otabek remains silent and keeps his eyes forward. Leo - who somewhere, somehow in their journey, was delegated as the middleman to Leroy and Altin - offers the Hero a friendly smile.

“Not much longer,” the Stable Boy responds. He runs his fingers through the hair of his horse’s main, beautiful and silky. Of course the Capital bred such fine horses for Heroes to travel with. Far more elegant than the ones that lingered in the stalls of their stables, working horses meant to pull vegetable carts and trow the land.

And oh, there’s an ache. Just at the tip of Leo’s sternum, and only as he thinks about home and what’s no longer there, no longer his. It burns. It burns so much.

“Can’t we rest? We’ve traveled two days straight and we’re barely closer to finding this so-called tower than we are to finding a decent meal aside from acorns and berries,” Leroy complains, loudly. He does a lot of things loudly, Leo finds. Leroy talks loudly. He chews the acorns and berries they scrounge up loudly. He professes how _lucky_ and _wondrous_ it is that he is in Leo and Otabek’s company loudly.

Otabek has taken to riding his horse a distance away from them, not far enough that Leo can’t converse with him as well, but not nearly as close enough to Leroy as Leo unfortunately is.

“Tell him he can go to the village if he wants to rest,” Otabek mutters.

“I can _hear_ you, you know!” Leroy huffs indignantly. Otabek doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Um,” Leo hums, and he tries to smile, “maybe you should? I mean, it’s not like me or Altin can show our faces in town again after we got arrested. It might send the town into a panic. But, it wouldn’t be strange for a Hero to be showing up alone looking for information and some lodging.”

Nodding his head, like he is finding his words rather inviting, Leo then adds, “I’m sure the townspeople will like to meet you. They _love_ Heroes. All they want to do is hear about the Hero’s Story and give them all the provisions they need to make the Story come true.”

Leroy’s chest puffs up big and proud, the smile on his lips eager like a little pup.

“Well, when you put it like _that_ ,” Leroy coos, and tightens his grip on the reins. “Then I shall head into town and find my information about the beggar woman’s son there. Maybe Gerhardt is still in town boozing it up and enjoying the townsfolk‘s company.”

Halting his horse, Leroy gives a pointed stare at Otabek. “But! If you two try to make an escape, then I’ll have no choice but to take you back into custody, as it is my duty as a Hero!”

Leo shakes his head. “We’re not running away,” he reassures. Or at least, Leo knows he’s not running away. Not with so much at stake. Not without his parents in tow.

That seems to be the right answer for Leroy, since his smile gets inconceivably bigger.

“I’ll see you at sundown. That should be enough time for you two to find the tower and conduct your little investigation, yeah?”

Leo nods. Otabek doesn’t even look Leroy in the eye. To that, Leroy frowns.

He gives the reins a gentle snap, steering his horse to turn in the opposite direction. As he passes Leo, he pauses to whisper - loudly, like usual - “Beware of that Delinquent. I don’t trust him one bit.”

And with that, the Hero Leroy gallops away into the forest and through the woods.

It’s quiet for the first time.

Leo brings his horse up to the pace of Otabek’s horse, his grip tight and throat growing nervously dry.

“So,” Leo begins, forcing a smile as best as he can, "how much longer _is_ it?"

"Not much longer," Otabek answers, not looking at Leo while he speaks. Leo laughs, but the sound is strange on his tongue.

"Uh, well how do you know?"

A pause. Then, Otabek hums.

"I just do," he answers, and his grip on the reins of his horse tightens. "I can’t explain why I know. I just feel it."

"Ah." Leo nods, and the two ride down the trail in momentarily silence. The hooves of their horses trod through the thick mud and marsh of the Earth, a steady _clop-clop-clop_ as they continue upwards.

Eventually, with a smile, Leo says, "You could have told him we were close."

Otabek frowns, and it’s noticeably different from the normally stoic frown that he wears.

"I didn’t want him to find the tower," Otabek confesses. "I don’t trust him. Him or the Storyteller."

Leo wants to ask ‘but why, when Leroy is a Hero?’ but he holds his tongue and remembers Gerhardt. Suppressing the thought and that disarming confusion of the _one_ exception to everything Leo’s ever known, Leo says, "Leroy seems harmless. He doesn’t even seem like the type to kill a fly if it’s something that a Hero wouldn’t."

“Any citizen of the Capital is just a lapdog to the Storyteller,” Otabek says, the sound of his voice charged with thinly-veiled contempt. “We already saw that the Storyteller finds Leroy to be less than competent, so why would he trust him to escort us on our journey to find the beggar woman’s son?”

“M-Maybe he’s giving him another chance?”

“The Storyteller doesn’t give second chances. Not unless they benefit him,” Otabek mutters under his breath. He finally casts a gaze towards Leo, and Leo sees in Otabek’s eyes discomfort and confusion threatening to eat its way out from within the hollow of his cheeks and the furrow of his brow.

“Why does he want _us_ to find the beggar woman’s son and not the Royal Guard? They have the resources and the manpower to do a countrywide search, don’t they?” Otabek questions. Leo doesn’t have the answer. He hates, he absolutely _abhors_ that he doesn’t have the answer.

Turning his head to face forward once again, Otabek sighs deeply through his nose. “There’s just something...wrong about this whole thing. About the Storyteller, about Leroy, and the beggar woman and her son.”

Leo is quiet.

They ride forward for only a few more minutes in silence, before Otabek gives a throaty murmur of, “We’re here.”

Leo looks up, and the tree branches seem to part for them as they approach a clearing, their horses walking in the shadow of the tall tower that looms before them.

Turning to look over his shoulder from where they exited the forest, he doesn’t see any trail of dirt that could have possibly gave Otabek a clue that they were on the right path. There is no footprints in the grass that he can see as he dismounts from his horse and ties the reins to the trunk of a crooked oak tree. No carriage tracks either.

How then?

_Beware of that Delinquent. I don’t trust him one bit._

Leo shakes his head free of Leroy’s words. No. No, Otabek has proven himself to be genuine. Leo _can_ trust Otabek...can’t he? There might be what was said of Otabek’s Story that Leo’s heard of through the village people’s murmurs and talks at the bar. There might have been that...that _instance_ during the Storyteller’s interrogation. But...but Leo can trust Otabek...

“Are you coming?” Otabek calls out, already halfway towards the red door at the base of the tower. Leo jumps in his spot.

“O-Oh! Coming!” He calls back, and hurries to Otabek’s side.

The tower is large. Even as Leo cranes his neck back to look up, it seems as though it stretches upwards towards infinity.

Otabek places a hand on the door, pressing his weight against the wood and hearing the hinges creak. He studies the gold bolts at the side, then rattles the knob once. Silently, Otabek reaches with his left hand to his belt, and withdraws his dagger.

Leo immediately steps back with alarm. “What are you doing?” He questions, hoping the nervous tremble isn’t at all obvious.

“Someone broke in here,” Otabek surmises, switching hands so the dagger is poised in his right grasp. “Be on guard.”

Leo isn’t a fighter. His siblings were, all experts with swords and flails, valiant and brave. His parents were so thankful he wasn’t a fighter. He was just their little Leo, born only to assist and help and not ever dream of being a fighter.

His hands itch with nervous energy, his breathing shallow as Otabek slowly pulls the door open with his dagger raised. The sunlight shines itself into the darkness of the tower, and Otabek disappears swiftly inside.

Leo follows, not sure what else to do.

The moment he enters, he’s hit with the most horrid scent of decaying flesh and the sound of buzzing flies.

There’s a body lying tucked against the furthest wall of the tower, a trail of blood leading from it to the base of the winding stairwell that travels upwards. Leo’s hands immediately go to his mouth to hold in his gag.

Otabek stands with the dagger still unsheathed, eying the body against the far wall before he crouches down to the blood trail on the floor. He runs the tips of his fingers against it, humming low to himself.

“It’s dry...it must have happened a couple of days ago.”

Leo swallows the bile back down his throat, looking back at the body. With timid steps, he approaches it. The smell is absolutely putrid, a hoard of flies buzzing around it as it rests in a crumpled heap against the wall. Leo’s nose scrunches in distaste, and he tries to look away when he stands only mere inches from where the body lays.

Be brave, Leo. This is for your parents, Leo. Anything to help solve these questions that keep arising must be investigated, Leo.

He peeks with one eye at the body, at the swollen face leaking with puss and blood, and at the Royal armor the body is still trapped in.

Armor...

Leo stares at the face longer, forcing his stomach to stop from twisting itself into knots for only a few seconds. He stares, he stares, he stares.

And with horror, the realization clicks.

“This...this is Gerhardt,” Leo chokes out. He hears Otabek’s footsteps approach shortly after the words leave his lips, Otabek crouching down at Leo’s side to see the body himself.

“...Hmm,” Otabek hums, glancing over his shoulder at the blood trail. Then, Otabek reaches out a hand towards Gerhardt’s hip, and begins to rummage through the deceased Hero’s armor.

“W-What are you _doing?!_ ” Leo asks incredulously.

“Seeing what he still has on him. It might be of use to us,” Otabek answers without a beat, withdrawing a small mirror and a flask of potion. He sets the items to the side, then with both hands, takes hold of Gerhardt’s body and flips it onto its back.

The head lolls uselessly to the side, and Leo quickly averts his eyes. A few more seconds of Otabek looting the body pass, before he rises to his feet with the mirror, the flask, and a sword with a crooked hilt still in its sheath.

“Here,” Otabek says, offering the sword to Leo. Leo looks down at Gerhardt’s body, then at the sword.

He wraps his arms around his head. “I don’t - I don’t want it,” he protests.

“Leroy won’t allow me having a weapon, but he’ll be lenient with you. Take it.”

“Leroy already has a sword. We - we don’t need another-“

“I told you we _can’t trust him._ ” Otabek turns his gaze to Gerhardt on the ground, lips pursed together. “It’s not that I don’t feel sympathy for him dying, but I don’t feel like we should let these go to waste, or wait for someone else to stumble upon the body and pawn his things off to make some quick gold.”

Leo opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. “B-But...looting a dead body is something _criminals_ do,” he says with a weakened voice.

Otabek is still.

Leo averts his eyes when the other man’s gaze becomes uncomfortable to match. But he has a hard time finding something to look at: his eyes wander to the blood trail and then to Gerhardt’s body before he stares at the tips of Otabek’s boots and then, his own feet.

In the silence, Otabek gives a noncommittal grunt, and lets the sword fall from his grasp to clatter loudly against the stone floor.

“Fine. The sword stays,” Otabek says, apathetic. He pockets the mirror and the flask as he speaks, “But I keep these.”

Leo doesn’t say anything, just stares at the sword resting at his feet.

Otabek turns and heads towards the staircase, pausing on the fifth step. “Are you going to keep him company while I search the tower?” the other man asks aloud. His voice is an echo in Leo’s ears, and it startles the Stable Boy to hurriedly move to the stairs and follow.

They ascend, quietly, the weight of the stairs creaking with each step that they take. On some steps towards the bottom, Leo notices flecks of dried blood scattered over the step’s surface. Since Otabek continues to climb the stairs, Leo at first doesn’t know if he should point it out. But, as they circle around, still a little ways to go, Otabek murmurs, “He must have fell.”

“H-Huh?” Leo stammers.

“Gerhardt.”

“Oh.” Leo doesn’t dare to look down at what height they are, but the stench of Gerhardt’s corpse is long gone from the air. “Do you...do you think he was...murdered?”

“...He didn’t strike me as the clumsy type to fall in an accident,” Otabek responds in turn. His hand rests on his hip, just above the hilt of his sheathed dagger. “We’ll find some more clues when we reach the top, surely.”

Wordlessly, Leo nods.

They climb.

They climb.

They climb, they climb, they climb, until at last, the stairs even out to a flat surface, and the two happen upon a small dining area in disarray. There’d been a struggle, Leo is sure of it. Two steps ahead of him, Otabek withdraws his dagger and creeps past the doorways without making a sound.

He heads to the room that is open, bypassing the room with the door close. Unsure of what to do, Leo lingers by this door and waits.

There’s an empty wicker basket that has fallen underneath the dining table. There are drawers pulled free and cupboard doors thrown open, as if whoever searched through them went about in a frantic hurry. The candles are all snuffed out, but there is sunlight coming from the room that Otabek went in.

Leo swallows. It won’t do him any good to just wait and watch. Be brave, Leo. Be brave.

He hisses in a sharp take of air, and steps forward.

The moment he does, the closed door’s lock comes off with an audible _click!_ and inches itself open.

Leo jumps, an unflattering squeak stifled by his tightly smashed mouth. He looks back down to the hallway, and Otabek still hasn’t emerged from the room. The door opens itself up more, sunlight coming through the crack, illuminating the tips of Leo’s boots.

Leo looks between the door and the other room for a long beat.

Then, sucking in another breath to still his tremors and the sweat glans of his palms, he braces a hand on the doorknob and pushes his way inside.

The room is spacious, the walls and the alcove above caked with a thin layer of dust. There are no candles on the wall, no furniture, no _person_ that unlocked the door and opened it for Leo to enter. Only four walls and a wooden floor, a stone window bringing in the sunlight to illuminate what would have been a dark room.

And there, in the middle of the floor, something materializes from the thin air and the rays of light.

Leo lingers in the doorway, blinking his eyes at what appears to be a small music box. He takes one step towards it, then two, then three, until he is crouching down in front of it to take the box carefully in his grasp. It’s heavy; there are gold engravings alongside the ivory sides of the box, and gold wrapping around the box’s corners as well. The lock on top has writing inscribed around the circumference of it, in a written language that Leo has never seen nor has the faintest idea how to read and pronounce each marking.

He gives it a shake, and hears that there’s something inside, but can’t picture just what. Bringing the tip of his thumb to the lock, he tries to get his fingernail just underneath the gold flap.

Then, he pauses when he hears what sounds like a whistling noise coming from within the box.

Leo quickly holds the item away from him, and the lock flashes a bright light before from the top of the box’s surface, a small red envelope sprouts and soars into the air above Leo’s head.

He reaches up to catch it, fumbling with the letter and the music box, before he nervously places the box down to the floor to inspect the letter. It’s embossed with a gold wax seal that easily comes off as he opens it, and the handwriting is done in an elegant, cursive gold ink.

For some reason, the letter smells sweetly of roses.

 

_My Champion,_

_I dreamt of Aurelia last night. I know that by the time this letter reaches you, you will have already moved on from the city. But I ask of you to please let your presence linger for just a little bit longer. There’s an unease that built itself a castle in my chest and reigns over my peace of mind. I wish that I may trust my Dearest Little Brother to do as he is told and take care of the Departed as well as Aurelia’s citizens, but in every dream of Aurelia I have, I only see him seated upon his throne and enjoying his lavish delights. Him, him, him. Only thing that matters is him. Dearest Brother will not listen to my concerns, but I pray that you will._

_The only solace I seem to find is in your letters. Our land sounds so beautiful when it is described in your hand. I sometimes imagine that you are beside me and speaking your words aloud when I read them, but whenever I do that, I feel a terrible ache in my chest when I wish to hear your voice for real instead of listening to a memory of it in my head._

_I hope that Dearest Brother will return to full health soon, so I may leave our Capital and return to tend to the people of our land. And I hope that you in turn will keep safe on your journey, and return to us soon once your duties are fulfilled._

_Storyteller_

"What are you doing?"

Leo jumps nearly three feet in the air, spinning around with the letter clutched tight to his fist.

Otabek stands in the doorway with a sketch pad in his grasp, his eyebrow quirked in interest.

"O-Oh," Leo stammers, looking at the note he has crushed in his fist. "I - uh - I found this. It’s a note...from the Storyteller..."

Otabek frowns at that. "What does it say? Why is it here?"

"I don’t know," Leo responds, looking to the box on the ground and lightly tapping it with the tip of his boot. "It came from this thing. But I can’t get it open."

It doesn’t seem to be possible, but Otabek frowns even more.

"Let me see," Otabek requests, holding his hand out. Leo offers it to him, and though he doesn’t ask for it, Otabek hands him the sketchbook he was holding in exchange. Quietly, Otabek reads through the letter. And since he has it, Leo decides to peruse the contents of the sketchbook.

He comes across a drawing of a man with silver hair and beautiful blue eyes. His smile is hypnotic, and through the detail of the lines and the color and the shading to bring out every aspect of the man, Leo knows this drawing was done with care, with skill, with love. There are some with him having long hair tied in a ponytail as he rides atop a brown steed, others of him sitting in a dark bar with a glass of drink, speaking with a figure shrouded in a black shawl. There’s profile shots, full body shots, drawings in which Leo can see only the blues of the man’s eyes where in which, the man looks like he isn’t even human, but something found only in dreams. Or maybe even nightmares.

Leo turns to the next page, and his breath traps in his throat.

It’s not the silver-haired man.

It’s Leo himself.

He spends a good minute just rationalizing how it _absolutely can’t_ be him, but falls flat the longer he takes the image in. The drawing brings out the small faint freckles over the bridge of his nose. It points out the rip at the knee of his pants, stitched closed with love from his mother. The color of his eyes, his hair, the crinkle at the corner of his mouth as his lips stretch into a triumphant grin, it’s him. It’s him, it’s him, it’s all _him_.

He stands in a meadow, guarding another figure dressed in a flowing pink garment wrapped around their lithe body. They’re…they’re beautiful. A dotting of freckles can be seen over every inch of their exposed skin, and they hold close to Leo in the drawing as he raises a sword against an unseen threat. A sword that - Leo realizes with minor discomfort - has a crooked hilt, just like Gerhardt’s sword that now rests at the bottom of the tower.

He looks up to Otabek, and it seems the other man has finished reading the letter, staring at the words with a look that surely matched Leo’s after he was done reading it.

“…What does it all mean?” Leo asks, turning the page. It isn’t another drawing of him, it’s the silver haired man again, this time standing beside a well and peering down into its depths. He continues to search through the book, but he doesn’t find another drawing of himself. So why was there one in the first place? Why, why _why?_

“I don’t know,” Otabek says, taking the sketchbook back. “I’m sure that this belongs to the beggar woman’s son, and that was his room that was open,” he explains. Turning his eyes to the ground, he clicks his tongue against his teeth. “I think that maybe he’s also the one that killed Gerhardt.”

“O-On purpose?”

“No. Accidental. Or maybe self-defense. There was clearly a struggle in his room and in the kitchen. Guess Gerhardt didn’t want to take the son giving a ‘no’ to their ‘true love’,” Otabek further explains.

“…So we’ve reached a dead end then,” Leo says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “Gerhardt’s dead, the beggar woman’s son is gone and we have no clues as to where he went or what the hell is going on.”

“We have these,” Otabek responds, gesturing to both the letter and the sketchbook. “This guy - whoever he is - must be someone important to the beggar woman’s son. Since we can’t get a picture of his face in our head, maybe we can ask around about this guy and hope that they are connected.”

“…And the letter?”

Otabek takes a look at the letter again, frowning still. “We may not understand the full story of the letter and what they’re talking about…but there are more in that box, right? I bet if we can get into it and read them, we’ll figure this all out.”

Pocketing the letter and handing the sketchbook to Leo, he shrugs. “Since that letter mentions Aurelia, I think we should go there to look for clues. For both the beggar woman’s son, and this mystery of the Champion and the Storyteller.”

There’s a moment’s pause, before Leo bites at his lower lip.

“And you wouldn’t want us to tell Leroy about any of this, do you?” Leo asks, not meeting Otabek’s eyes.

“…I don’t think we should, no.”

“Come on, we can trust him. I’m…I’m _sure_ we can trust him! He’s not like Gerhardt,” Leo insists, a hand balling into a tight fist. “We won’t make it far on this journey if none of us are on the same path. The Storyteller needs to find the beggar woman’s son and - and I might not know _why_ we were chosen or if there’s something bigger happening that I don’t understand but I” — his voice cracks here, and he swallows his words, lets them sit in his throat for a moment as the trembles start to crawl up his spine, before he summons them forward once more — “but I _need_ to save my parents. And if hiding secrets from each other will get in the way of that, then I’m not going to let you do it.”

Otabek stares as Leo looks him directly in the eye, chest puffed with resolved. It’s quiet, but Leo hears his heart thumping mad against his ribs. He stares and waits and doesn’t back away, however. He keeps his breathing steady and slow, while the nervous buzz itches uncomfortably at the nape of his neck and down the curve of his spine.

And then, it is Otabek that breaks contact first, only to look at the box on the ground and how there is a small card resting on the top of its lid that wasn’t there before. He crouches down and takes it between his fingers, squinting at the text.

“What’s that?” Leo asks, not sure if Otabek is going to respond to what he said. Otabek stands to his feet with the card, turning it over to look at its blank backside, before turning it back to read the message.

“…’I feel your spirit all around me. I come and take root, I set you free. I feel your spirit all around me. I come and take root, I set you free.’”

At once, the car disappears from Otabek’s fingers in a spark of green fire. Both jump, but the card leaves no ashes behind as it burns in mid air, the fire not even leaving a scent. Otabek looks around the room in small alarm, hand firmly gripping the sketchbook and the letter. Leo looks around too, though he doesn’t know for what and that is absolutely _terrifying_ him.

“What was that? Was that a spell? W-What kind of spell was that?” Leo questions.

“Don’t know,” Otabek murmurs low under his breath, closing his eyes. “Do you hear something?”

Leo’s jaw locks tight. He listens for something, perhaps even the sound of armor creaking its way up the stairs, as ludicrous as the thought even is. He listens for something strange, but all he hears is the tower’s floor and its walls creaking with age and the outside breeze.

…

…

Actually, it seems to be creaking a lot.

…

…

There’s…there’s something happening-

**_B O O M!_ **

A fat arm of a tree erupts through the floorboard, greenery sprouting on its ends and thin branches spreading out from its sides. Leo screams with alarm, and Otabek makes a grab for Leo’s wrist.

“Run!” he shouts, and Leo barely has the time to scoop the box off the ground before Otabek tugs Leo out of the room and out of the growing tree’s path.

The kitchen is quickly becoming demolished as more tree branches and greenery burst through the walls and the floorboards in all directions, creating a thicket like the woods that Leo and Otabek previously cut their way through in order to get to the tower in the first place. Otabek doesn’t hesitate or gawk the way that Leo does now. He hurries them both down the stairs, taking two then three steps at a time.

The staircase now winds around a trunk of a large tree that continues to grow and expand at a rapid pace and without any regard to the tower that it is taking down in its progress. Leo ducks and bobs around stray branches and tree bushels that arch out from the sides of the trunk, jumping over them before he stumbles into Otabek and they both share the same fate Gerhardt had. Above him, he hears the tree breaking and forcing its way through the tower’s brick walls to the outside. And though he really really _really_ doesn’t want to ponder on the thought, he does notice that the stairs behind him feel as though they are disappearing right from under his feet the moment he steps off of it.

“We’re almost there!” Otabek yells, a branch nicking him against his cheek as he takes a sharp turn to the right to avoid the stairwell crumbling beneath their feet. The roots of the tree slither outwards like snake, burrowing themselves into the base of the tower and spreading beneath the Earth’s surface. The door is now completely thrown off its hinges, the archway barely keeping its shape as the tower’s walls start to cave. Leo spares a glance to where Gerhardt’s body is, and witnesses the trees roots wrap themselves around the corpse and draw it violently down into the Earth and forever out of Leo’s sight.

The sword is still there, laying abandoned.

The sword that the beggar woman’s son drew Leo wielding.

The sword that Leo used to protect himself and that beautiful being he’s never seen or met.

What does it mean? What does it _mean?_

Leo breaks away from Otabek and makes a run for it.

There’s a startled cry, and it’s probably Otabek yelling at Leo for being stupid, but Leo can’t quite focus. His vision is a blur as he jumps over the vines that threaten to wrap themselves around his ankles and make him one with the tree and grabs hold of the sword’s crooked hilt. Blindly, he turns and hacks away the branches and skinny roots that coil up to lick at his heels.

Otabek makes a jump out of the doorway and Leo follows suit, just as the stone of the tower’s wall crumbles and the tree gives one final push to destroy it all.

With a loud boom that deafens the ears, the tower crumbles. And in its place once the smoke has settled and ground no longer quakes with such raw, magical power, there stands a tree that is taller than all those that surround it.

Leo stares up at it with mild awe, his jaw slack and Gerhardt’s sword loose in his grip, his fingers barely hanging onto its crooked hilt. The tree’s leaves are a healthy shade of green, and in its branches Leo can even see flowers blooming in pinks and whites and carrying on the breeze a sweet scent that is fresh and new.

Eventually, when he finds that he can no longer just sit there and stare, Leo gets to his feet. “…What now?” he asks, and he doesn’t expect for Otabek to answer. The Delinquent has been quiet himself, holding the sketchbook loosely in his grip. He stares at the tree too, a look on his face unreadable and still.

Otabek turns his chin down and sighs, his shoulders slumping with his posture.

“We find Leroy. We tell him about Gerhardt and about how we should go to Aurelia…but nothing about the letters. At least, not until we understand the context of them,” Otabek murmurs, and turns swiftly on his heel to return to their horses still tied up at the edge of the clearing.

Leo goes after him. “But maybe Leroy would know! I mean, he’s a Hero and Heroes speak with the Storyteller all the time, don’t they? Even - even if the Storyteller doesn’t like Leroy, I’m sure Leroy knows more about the Storyteller than we do. Maybe he might even know about this Champion guy the letter mentions too!” He doesn’t know if he’s convincing or not, since Otabek has yet to turn around and acknowledge Leo’s words. Pursing his lips tight, Leo gives a frustrated sigh through his nose.

“…He hasn’t done anything to have earned my trust,” Otabek responds, and the glance over his shoulder is cold. “Call me difficult and untrusting, but there’s just something I don’t like about Leroy. There’s…there’s something about him, about _all_ of this that makes me feel like we shouldn’t let our guard down.”

Otabek unties the reins of his horse, climbing up to mount it and grip the reins firmly in his hold. “So, unless you have a more solid reason for me to trust him other than ‘he’s not Gerhardt’, I don’t think we should tell him about the letters. If he finds out on his own, then fine. But we should have the upper hand.”

Leo unties and mounts his horse as well, conflict twisting his lips into a minor scowl.

“I bet even if I did have a good reason to trust him, you wouldn’t listen anyways,” the Stable Boy retorts. To that, Otabek doesn’t even bother to reject the claim. Clenching tightly to the reins, Leo tucks his chin in towards his chest. “…Fine. We don’t tell him. But like I said, if withholding information from Leroy will hold us back from finding the beggar woman’s son…from saving my _parents_ , then I’m not going to hesitate to confess everything that I know.”

Otabek makes this face that consists of a curl of his lips, a scrunch of his nose, and a deep furrow of his eyebrows. He turns away from Leo, facing towards the direction that they entered into the clearing from. With the large tree standing in the tower’s place, it is as if the forest around them drew in closer to further hide the fact that a tower once stood here.

“Fine,” Otabek says once, and gives the reins a sharp snap. His horse whinnies in response, and Otabek proceeds to ride out and disappear into the forest. Leo spares a glance over his shoulder at the tree, and at the bits of rock and rubble that came from the destroyed tower now looking perfectly in place rocks. It’s beautiful, though there’s an uncomfortable taste in his mouth as he thinks that somewhere beneath the Earth’s crust in a tangle of roots, Gerhardt’s body is lost.

He turns the sword in his grasp and awkwardly attaches the hook of the sword’s sheath to the hip of his pants. It feels heavy and foreign on his body, and the crooked hilt digs a bit into the meat of his thigh as he gets better situated on his horse.

They’ll find out what’s going on.

They’ll find out what this all means.

They’ll save Leo’s parents. _Leo_ will save his parents, no matter what cost.

 

* * *

 

Meanwhile, as a Delinquent and a Stable Boy make their retreat from a forest that had engulfed all evidence of what once stood a tower, far far _far_ south of all the bright and golden cities of the Capital and Fleur and Aurelia, at the edge of the dark and dreary lands known only to travelers as the Wastes, there exists a small wooden hovel.

“You get many visitors around these parts?” a stranger asks to fill the silence of the tavern he makes himself comfortable in. Standing behind a rickety wooden bar, Celestino Cialdini wipes one of five glasses clean with a grey piece of cloth.

He gives a shrug, glancing around at the emptiness of the tavern, the dim lights illuminating the holes in the floorboards and the cobwebs in the alcoves.

“Not many people like to wander too close to the Wastes,” Celestino responds, “on account of the Lady wandering these parts.”

The stranger looks at Celestino with perplexed eyes. “The Lady? I thought she was only a myth.”

“She’s as real as the Hawker and the Storyteller. Probably the most frightening out of all three too,” Celestino says matter-of-factly. He rarely strays far from his tavern, only when to venture to the nearest town to pick up any necessities and supplies. He sticks close to the main road and avoids the trails that become overwhelmed with the grey foggy mist that surrounds the hovel now.

Sometimes, during the night, Celestino hears someone walk circles around the perimeter of the tavern, their footsteps dragging through the dirt yet somehow never leaving a trail when the sun rises at dawn. Those are the nights Celestino feels a sense of dread that crawls up his chest and threaten to strangle him where he lies.

“Then I guess I should continue onwards before the path grows too foggy,” the stranger deduces, rising to his feet.

“You know, not many people go to see Lilia,” Celestino points out, and its then that he takes a good look at the stranger, looking over the features of his face with a bewildering eye. “You don’t look like the type that makes friends out of witches.”

The stranger smiles. It’s a handsome one, well worthy of a Hero or maybe even an Aristocrat. A Prince maybe? No, no Prince or person of wealth would wander so closely to the Wastes, _especially_ in search of a witch.

The stranger gives his arms a stretch and yawns. “Before I leave, do you mind if I get some water from that well of yours outside for my horse?” he asks.

Celestino clicks his tongue. “Be careful with it,” he says, pausing in his glass cleaning for now and discards the rag on the surface of the counter. He walks around it, hands in the pockets of his trousers and the floorboards creaking with his weight. “Some old witch in Aurelia opened up a portal in it. I often have a lot of weird things floating around at the bottom of it.”

The stranger laughs, very amused.

Celestino leads the stranger outside, wincing at the bitter cold that goes quickly down his spine. The fog covers the path that circles around the tavern to the well where the stranger has his horse tied up to. Though Celestino knows the Lady never makes her presence known before nightfall, he knows that somewhere in the unforeseen depths of the forest around them, she is there, seeking out travelers to snatch into her clutches.

Hiding his discomfort for now, he approaches the well and peers down in it. The well is deep and it is dark. Rarely does Celestino use it anymore, especially since that witch turned it into a dumping container of weird oddities and vile smelling elixirs. Matter of fact, he isn’t even sure if the water below is safe for consumption for humans _or_ animals.

“Is this how we lower the bucket?” the stranger asks aloud, bringing a hand to the wooden crank bolted into one of the well’s supporting beams of rotted out wood. It only takes one touch of the handle for the bucket and its rope to suddenly come unwound, dropping quickly into the darkness.

“Ah,” the stranger comments, “was that supposed to happen?”

Celestino huffs. “I don’t get visitors! I wasn’t expecting I needed to keep everything in tip top shape!” he protests, but pauses when deep down in the well, he hears…a strange noise.

He hears a voice - confused, nervous, slightly frightened - give a cry of ‘ouch!’.

The stranger must have heard the sound as well, since he gives Celestino an inquiring look, then peers down into the darkness of the well for himself, his body half hanging over the weathered stone edge.

“Hello?!” he shouts down below, and his voice is a loud and charming echo that rings into the depth of the well for only a few seconds.

And soon, a confused ‘Hello?’ echoes right back to them.

The stranger makes a noise of surprise. “You said you have weird things floating in it. You never mentioned _people_.”

Celestino’s mouth opens and closes like a fish. “I - I don’t even know how to explain this,” he says, more so to himself than to the stranger that continues to peer down into the well for any sights of the person. Celestino knows that the witch in Aurelia is a little bit on the batty side; he’s only held conversation with her once when he stayed in Aurelia on a semi-vacation from the Wastes. Always muttering to herself, eyes constantly flickering from one side to the other and a discomforting kindness laced in the vowels of her words.

A person. How on _Earth_ did a _person_ get inside his well???

“Are you hurt?” the stranger calls down again, and waits for words to reach the person.

“…N-No? Where am I?”

“In a well! Don’t tell me you don’t know how you got there!” the stranger shouts, though he wears a smile on his lips.

“I-I don’t! I was - I was falling a moment ago! And now I’m - how did - I - _ugh!_ ”

The stranger chuckles. “They sound rather cute,” he tells Celestino, his words heavy with admiration.

“We’ll get you out of there! Just hold on!” Celestino calls down, reaching out to take hold of the rope and wrap it around his fists. It’s an old rope, one that has seen better days. Biting down on his lower lip, Celestino’s nostrils give a small flare. “That bucket that hit you, you think you can grab onto it?! We’ll pull you up, okay?!”

“O-Okay!” the person below shouts back.

Celestino turns to the stranger who is still peering into the well. “Okay, I’m going to pull them up. The moment you see them, try and make a grab for them, got it?”

The stranger gives a wordless nod.

Turning his attention back to the well and furrowing his eyebrows, Celestino gives the rope a tug. He certainly feels _something_ on the other end, and that something is rather _heavy_. He pulls and he huffs and the rope begins to burn against his skin as he momentarily struggles with pulling the person’s weight all by himself.

“Do you need help?” the stranger offers, reaching out his hands to take hold of the rope.

Celestino wishes he can huff out a ‘no, I got it’. He’s not as young as he used to be; his Story is drawing closer and closer to its end with each passing day and the lines in his face and etched across his palms grow more and more prominent. The stranger has his hands gripping the rope tighter than the grip Celestino is slowly losing, and when the stranger tugs, it’s like he’s pulling a bucket of feathers instead of a person.

Strong and charming. The man _must_ be a Hero.

It takes a minute, maybe perhaps two or three, until Celestino hears ‘I’m almost there!’. The voice is clearer now, sounding like a young man. That only serves to confuse Celestino even more. How did he get down there? Did that witch have anything to do with this?? And even so, _why???_

The stranger pulls the rope with a quickened fervor, moving faster than Celestino can keep with the pace. As he pulls, Celestino also hears high pitched yips echoing from the well too. A dog? A boy and a dog??

“I’m here! I’m here! Vicchan!” the young man’s voice states to quell the distressed barks, and there, the stranger gives one last pull while lunging forward to reach out and grab at the slender hand that tentatively grips the edge of the well’s mouth.

There’s a startled squeal, and out from the well a brown puppy jumps up onto hands still gripping the well’s edge and down onto the ground. They excitedly circle around the stranger’s feet, jumping at his heels and wagging his tail.

The stranger smiles at the pup, then proceeds to physically pull the young man further up and out, Celestino dropping the rope and moving to the side to assist.

The young man can’t be older than eighteen, nineteen at most. His glasses are skewed on his nose and he’s absolutely _filthy_ , grime mucking up his dark hair and sticking to his round cheeks, while moss and dirt make themselves home in the folds of his peasant clothing and his ripped red cloak.

The stranger has a stupidly, big smile on his lips as the young man coughs and tries to gather his breath.

“T-Thank you. Um, I-“ his eyelashes flutter, as if he’s become aware of who is holding his hands and guiding him out of the well, before his eyes bulge wide with shock and his dirtied cheeks blush a pretty shade of pink.

“It seems luck led me right to you again,” the stranger muses, and pulls the young man out of the well and right into his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sporadic updates continue*


	9. Good Company

It does not take much for Yuuri to go boneless in the arms of Victor Nikiforov, just seeing his reflection in the pools of Victor’s blue eyes and curl of Victor’s smile. Yuuri might be trembling, since he feels a small quiver at the tips of his fingers, hovering just above the fabric of Victor’s tunic.

“…Uh…" the man at their side starts, "you know each other?”

Victor chuckles, and _how?_ How can Yuuri find that he has missed a sound that he has only heard one time in his life? Victor turns with his arms still firmly, tightly, securely wrapped around Yuuri’s waist, to the man that is standing at their side with eyes darting between the two in bewilderment.

“We’re acquainted with each other,” Victor explains.

“Not so acquainted that I didn’t find you down in my well with him," the man chides. His voice holds a well aged charm, slightly raspy but kindness taking the hard edge of his voice and morphs it into something comforting. The man approaches the two of them, green eyes peering down at Yuuri with mild suspicion. “Where do you hail from, Boy?”

“A tower," Victor answers for Yuuri. He’s smiling at Yuuri. He smells so nice to Yuuri, like fresh mint and forest floors, pine needles and woody scents. He wants to be subtle, but Yuuri’s eye flutter obviously as he inhales the scent in and lets it fill his lungs.

“Not many towers around these parts," the other man mumbles, rubbing his square chin. “A Prince?"

“N-No," Yuuri manages to say against Victor’s chest, mouth warm and trembling against the fabric. He pulls back, just enough to see the other man’s full expression. “I was...I was running from the Hawker. And this old woman pushed me in a hole and I...are we not in Aurelia anymore?”

Victor smiles at him. “Aurelia is far far away from the likes of here,” he murmurs. The man beside the two, however, does not wear an expression of amusement as Victor does now. His eyebrows are pulled downwards, and now his eyes shift nervously to their foggy surroundings, his hands growing terse at his sides.

“Come. We should speak matters inside. So no one will be listening,” he mutters, placing hands on Victor’s shoulders to steer them both towards a shabby wooden building. Yuuri stumbles a bit over his own two feet, holding his now crooked basket on his arm, a soggy sketchbook and very few coins of gold still left in their pouch tucked away into the bend of its side. Vicchan totters after them, sniffing at the wet ground and the marshy footprints Yuuri leaves.

The man guides them to the back door, looking at Yuuri out the corner of his eye. “Watch the circle,” he warns, and steps over something, Victor following suit.

Yuuri adjusts the glasses on his nose and squints, and he soon enough sees that there is a darker section of dirt separate from the marshy Earth beneath their feet. It stretches into a wide line that goes around the back corner of the building and towards the front as well, carefully and meticulously laid out two feet away from the wooden door and completely undisturbed. He steps over the circle as asked, turning to Vicchan, expecting the puppy to follow. Vicchan hesitates just at the edge of the circle, staring at Yuuri with sad beady brown eyes.

“Come on,” he says, patting his thigh. Vicchan whimpers, rubbing the tip of his muzzle against the ground, before huffing out a noise. Yuuri frowns. “ _Now_ you don’t want to tag along?”

“What is it?” Victor calls from the door. Yuuri turns, seeing Victor approach his side and look down at the pup with a smile. “He can keep Makkachin company if he doesn’t want to come inside just yet,” Victor suggests, clapping a hand onto Yuuri’s shoulder. His hold is warm, and his hand is comforting, a perfect accessory to the smile that he gives to Yuuri. “I’m sure the Lady has no interest in taking a dog and a horse to keep her company if she is wandering these parts, so there’s no need to worry about him being safe.”

Yuuri swallows, then nods. He turns to Vicchan, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“I’ll be back, okay?” he reassures. Vicchan stretches out beside the circle, careful not to let the tips of his front paws touch it. He responds to Yuuri with a high pitched yip, and scurries off towards the front of the hovel.

“Smart dog,” Victor muses aloud. Yuuri hasn’t a response, but he smiles anyways.

Inside the hovel, it’s warm. There are candles lit, wax dripping from their holders onto the floorboards that creak with their weight, as Yuuri and Victor approach the man who has now taken residence behind a broken down bar counter.

“So, the Hawker was after you?” the man questions with a raise of an eyebrow. “What for?”

Yuuri averts his eyes, taking a seat on a stool with a wobbly left leg.

“I’m not sure. Something about…my scent…and my mother,” Yuuri explains through quiet murmurs. He brings his wrist to his nose to lightly take a whiff, eyes wincing with disgust. He smells like _something_ \- moss and dirt and sweat and _ick_ \- but nothing that would warrant getting chased by a mob consisting of every citizen of Aurelia.

“Hmm,” the man hums, rubbing at his square chin. “What were you doing with the Hawker anyhow? Viewing a Tale?”

“Um, yes. Though, I was trying to find someone that would help me get to the Capital to see the Storyteller,” Yuuri explains.

“If the Hawker was chasing after you, then you don’t want to go to the Storyteller,” the man says grimly. The candlelight all around casts an ominous shadow over the man’s face, making his cheeks and eyes appear sunken in, reminiscent of a skull. “What is your Story?” he asks. Yuuri sighs.

“I don’t have one,” he admits. The sentence doesn’t stutter from his lips this time in comparison to the others. There’s just a tint of exhaustion too at the tip of Yuuri’s tongue. Perhaps some annoyance and frustration as well.

The man sniffs, giving Victor a side-eyed glare. “So you _both_ don’t want to tell me your Stories, huh? For all I know, you two might be a couple of crooks,” he accuses.

"I’m _not_ ," Yuuri insists. The man waves away his words, nodding his head.

"So, will you two be needing a place to stay?" he asks both Victor and Yuuri, inclining his head towards the closed door. "The fog is getting pretty thick. If Lilia isn’t home, you might have to make camp in the Wastes, and that is something I highly advise _not_ to do."

Victor shakes his head, reaching inside the pocket of his trousers. "I have business with her. If she isn’t there, then I don’t mind making a camp. I have what I need to keep myself safe." He pulls free a crushed silk pouch, and tosses it onto the counter. It jingles on impact, fat with coins. "That should be enough to pay for him though. As many nights as he needs."

Yuuri’s eyes widen in surprise, and he clutches at the front of his tunic, gripping the fabric tight in his fist, the necklace from his mother hidden in the material.

"W-Wait, I can’t accept this," he protests, taking the bag of coins to push back into Victor’s clutches. "I don’t want people giving favors for me when I can’t pay them back. I’ll...I’ll make a camp too. Somewhere safe."

"You don’t look like the resourceful type, boy," the man from behind the counter chides. "This isn’t a happy little meadow, you two. This is _the Wastes_. There’s a _reason_ people don’t come here."

"Then point me in the direction I need to leave this place," Yuuri responds in turn.

The man stares at them both, drumming his fingers against the surface of the counter, before he sighs and glances at the battered wicker basket on Yuuri’s arm.

"You got some paper and something to write with? I’ll draw you up a path," he offers. Yuuri nods, taking his sketchbook from within the basket to sit on the counter, along with a charcoal nub that can barely be held onto.

The man takes both, and absently flips open the cover of the book where Victor’s portrait fills up the entire page in washed out colors. Heat scorches Yuuri’s face in an instant, seeing Victor’s expression out the corner of his eye register with confusion.

The man flips through the book now, slowly admiring each and every drawing of Victor Yuuri created, each one more elaborately detailed than the next, in charcoal and paint and oils and ink.

"I-I can find a clean page!" Yuuri squeaks the same time Victor reaches a hand out to take the book himself.

"You drew these?" Victor asks. His voice is quiet, doesn’t hold much sense of amusement but rather intrigue, as he slowly turns each page and takes in every image of himself. With his hands trembling uselessly at his side, Yuuri gives a slow nod of his head.

"I don’t know _why_ , but...I’ve been drawing pictures of you for a very long time...I wanted to see the Storyteller to figure out just what it all meant and who was I. But I haven’t been having any luck lately, just getting more questions and putting myself in dangerous situations."

"You really don’t know who you are?" the man behind the counter asks with incredulous eyes. "What about your folks? Didn’t they tell you anything?"

"I only had my mother, and she didn’t speak anything about my Story...and she was murdered, so I can’t ask her anything now."

"Didn’t you have a fiancé?" Victor asks, still looking at the pages of Yuuri’s sketchbook. "What about them? What did they know about your Story?"

The mental image of Gerhardt’s face flickers like a candle in the abyss of Yuuri’s mind, and quickly, he snuffs it out.

"I don’t have a fiancé," Yuuri says, and there’s something bitter on his tongue when he says the word, tasting like clarity on something he’s been pondering on for quite sometime. "I’m sure _they_ had something to do with my mother’s death in the first place."

Silence once more.

Victor closes Yuuri’s sketchbook, but still keeps it close to him. "Come with me to see Lilia," he offers. He sounds like he’s thinking on something, softness in his voice that makes Yuuri’s chest feel warm. "If you have any questions, she may be able to answer them."

Yuuri turns to him, eyes bewildered. “Who is she?”

“A witch that lives deeper into the Wastes, off the forked path headed south of this place,” the man behind the counter explains. Yuuri keeps his distasteful huff down in his chest.

“What would a witch know about me?” he asks, eyes wary. “I thought they were all crooks anyhow.”

“She’s genuine,” Victor speaks. Yuuri turns to look at him next, but Victor has already turned his body, starting towards the door. “I can take you, but we need to hurry before the sun sets.”

The man behind the bar nods his head solemnly to that. “Monsters” - he murmurs under his breath - “and the Lady.”

Yuuri wants to question just _who_ is this ‘Lady’ that they speak of, but Victor has already pushed the door wide open and the chill of the outside air rudely invades the warm space of the hovel. Yuuri looks between the man and Victor’s retreating back, before urgency pushes his legs to give chase after Victor outside.

“Good luck, you two!” the man shouts just as Yuuri breaches the doorway and hastily steps over the magic circle, before the door slams shut behind him all on its own.

Victor turns to look over his shoulder at Yuuri, while Vicchan jumps up from his spot curled up by a rock to run around Victor’s feet.

He smiles at Yuuri, but there’s something a bit…peculiar about the curve of his lips. “So, we should hurry, yeah?”

Yuuri nods, fighting the discomforting feeling back down into the pits of his stomach. “R-Right. If you…if you really think she’ll be able to help.”

Victor nods, turning to continue his approach of Makkachin, the horse idly chewing on the straws of grass in his reach. Yuuri sees that strangely, Victor isn’t carrying much things suitable to travel. He sees no sword on Victor’s hip, nor on Makkachin’s saddle. Nothing but a dirty, burlap sack tied up onto the end of Makkachin’s saddle, pathetically holding onto the leather by a worn out piece of rope.

Momentarily, he averts his eyes. “Um…the witch isn’t far, is she?" Yuuri asks, unsureness in his throat, "We…we might have to camp if we don’t make it by nightfall.”

“We will,” Victor says, taking the sketchbook and Yuuri’s basket to place inside of the sack, then takes hold of Yuuri’s hand. “Now come along.”

He guides Yuuri to stand in front of him, then slides his hands to rest on Yuuri’s waist. Heat sears through Yuuri’s cheeks as Victor pulls him up against his front. “I’ll boost you up, okay? Get a good hold of Makkachin’s saddle and then throw your leg over,” Victor instructs, lips soft against Yuuri’s ear. He counts to three, and then lifts Yuuri off the ground. Yuuri flails momentarily, awkwardly grabbing at Makkachin’s mane and the saddle before clumsily flopping his belly over the saddle like he himself is a burlap sack.

Victor laughs. “Not how I’d mount a horse but I suppose that works too,” he says as Yuuri quickly tries to orient himself on the steed. Thankfully, Makkachin doesn’t buck or jump as Yuuri tries to get himself situated. The horse idly stands there, flicking away bugs with a swish of his brown tail, continuing to eat at the few patches of grass visible in the fog.

“Now for the pup,” Victor says, taking hold of Vicchan to hand to Yuuri. Yuuri takes him, Vicchan eagerly licking at Yuuri’s face and the underside of his chin. Victor braces himself and hops onto Makkachin’s back last, arms going around Yuuri to take hold of the reins.

“Scoot yourself against me,” he instructs. With warm cheeks, Yuuri awkwardly wriggles himself back till he is flushed against Victor’s front once more. “Hold tight to front of the saddle, okay?”

“O-Okay-“ Yuuri starts to stammer, but Victor gives the reins a hard _snap!_ and Makkachin _bolts_.

The horse barrels down the dirt path, kicking up dirt as the hovel immediately disappears behind them and into the fog. Yuuri’s eyes scrunch tight in an instant, an alarmed scream shooting from his mouth as he grabs hold of not the saddle, but Victor’s left forearm. Victor brings his arms inwards, caging Yuuri by his waist and placing his chin upon Yuuri’s shoulders.

“It’s okay! You’re doing fine!" Victor reassures.

“I’ve never been on a horse!” Yuuri admits with his eyes still closed, Vicchan squirming in his grasp while his other hand squeezes at Victor’s forearm tighter. “Why are we going so fast?! What if we hit something?!”

“We have to go fast!” Victor says with a laugh. It makes the nerves almost roll off Yuuri’s spine, would have made Yuuri melt back into Victor’s arms. But, Victor snaps his reins and Makkachin jumps over a fallen log in their path, which draws another scream out of Yuuri and makes his body lurch forward.

“This is too fast! This is too fast!” Yuuri hisses through clenched teeth.

“A few more strides and we can slow down, but we _must_ make it to Lilia’s before nightfall,” Victor warns. Yuuri just nods his head, furiously clenching his eyes and gritting his teeth, waiting for all of this to just _stop_.

And eventually, it does.

The pace gets slower, the ride gets less bumpier. Though Yuuri’s death grip on Victor’s forearm remains, he does manage to peek open his left eye as he feels Victor smile against his ear.

All around them is nothing but fog. The air smells a bit wet. A bit like death as well. Yuuri hears Makkachin’s hooves _clumpclumpclump_ through the wet dirt, but when he looks down, he sees that the fog is so high that he can’t even see _his own_ feet.

Yuuri holds Vicchan to his chest. “What is this?” he asks aloud.

“The Wastes. The fog here makes it difficult to travel. It thins from time to time; generally the worse it is, the closer the Lady might be dwelling,” Victor murmurs. His voice is quiet, but Yuuri doesn’t suspect the reason for that is because Victor’s lips are still so dangerously close to his ear.

“…This Lady,” Yuuri says, voice taking on a whisper of his own, “is she…is she like the Hawker? Like the Storyteller?”

“No one knows,” Victor murmurs. “People don’t seek her out like they do with the Hawker or the Storyteller. People don’t know her purpose either. She just…wanders through the Wastes, like a ghost. I heard that she snatches travelers up, chokes them to death with her long, bony fingers. And if she doesn’t do that, she’d reach down into your throat, and pluck your vocal cords out from your mouth along with your tongue so you can’t even scream.”

Yuuri feels his tongue go heavy in his mouth, his body rigid with fear. In his hold, Vicchan gives a distressed little whimper, and nuzzles himself against Yuuri’s terrified beating heart.

“Shouldn’t…shouldn’t a Hero do something then?” he asks, voice scared to now even croak from his throat.

“She’s unkillable, at least from the stories I’ve heard. Besides, it’s not like anyone comes to the Wastes anyways. Heroes only do things for the fame and recognition. They wouldn’t stoop so low as to rid a menace from a barren wasteland that no one cares about,” Victor chides.

“…Have you crossed paths with a Hero before?”

“Once. Twice. I’m not a fan of them,” Victor says with a shrug.

“…So, you wouldn’t be-“

“No,” Victor responds before Yuuri can finish, voice resolute. “I’m not a Hero.”

They both go quiet afterwards.

Makkachin continues to move through the fog, Victor guiding him with little twists of his wrist and clicks of his tongue. The fog rises and falls, grows thicker and thins. The smell of death and water does not leave Yuuri’s nose, and after inhaling the air for the last couple of minutes, he lessens his grip of Victor’s forearm to move his hand to his turning stomach.

“Is it normal to feel sick from this air?” Yuuri asks, moving his hand to his mouth to somehow block the air from being pulled into his mouth and his nostrils.

“It’s not a place for a person to spend a long amount of time in. I heard if a person spent longer than three days in the Wastes, they’d die a lonely death, with the causes unknown,” Victor admits.

"Are you _trying_ to freak me out?"

Victor laughs again. “Lilia’s is a safe spot in the Wastes. Once we get there, you’ll be fine. And until then, I’ll protect you along the way."

Though Yuuri’s face is warm from the sentiment, he still bristles at the words. “I don’t want to be a liability to you," he mentions. "It’s clear you’re on a quest of your own, even if you’re not a Hero. When I meet with the witch and find out what she knows, we can go our separate ways, if you want."

"Then I should try and enjoy my time with such beautiful company if you’re going to leave me so soon," Victor muses nonchalantly. Another noise shrieks from Yuuri’s lips, and he makes a startled movement on the saddle that almost makes him fall. Victor chuckles, and though Yuuri can’t see the man’s face, he knows Victor is wearing a smile through their next few strides.

The air is bitter cold, even with Victor’s warmth against Yuuri’s back. Vicchan is shivering, and Yuuri does his best to wrap the puppy up in the ruins of his red cloak, dirtied with moss and grime. He’s filthy. He feels sticky and smelly and _god,_ this is such a horrible way to meet Victor again after all this time. Yuuri made a fool of himself at the river, and now he smells like the rear end of a timid ass. At times, Yuuri releases his hold of Victor’s forearm for a second, if only to try to wipe away the grunge of filth on his cheeks with the back of his hand.

"There’s a river by Lilia’s home," Victor brings up the third time Yuuri does this. "You can wash up there, if you’d like me to stop."

"N-No. I wouldn’t want to keep you waiting...I don’t stink too bad, do I?"

"I don’t think you want me to answer that question."

Yuuri groans. Vicchan whimpers in agreement.

They ride. They ride. They ride. Makkachin trots and winds through crooked trees with branches like claws, past dead bushes and blackened boulders. The air makes Yuuri’s stomach turn with nausea, and he feels his body swaying from side to side with Makkachin’s movements, vision blurry and smudging everything together.

Perhaps that is what makes Yuuri think that in the distance, he sees a shadow of a figure standing beside the path they currently are on.

"Someone’s there," he whispers to Victor, his words coming out slurred and tongue feeling strange in his mouth.

"I see them. Don’t say anything," Victor warns.

"Is it a bandit?" Yuuri asks, before another fear enters his heart, "Is it the Lady?"

Victor shushes him, not daring to even look in the direction of the shadowy figure as they draw closer and closer to it.

Yuuri isn’t sure if it is the fog that distorts his vision, or maybe it is his impending nausea from the clogging wet scent of the Wastes, but the figure does not take a defined shape as they come near it. It is a person, Yuuri knows that much by the two legs they stand on, no bigger than the man that they met at the hovel way back. But Yuuri doesn’t see a face, or hair, or clothing. The outline of their figure is blurry and dark like a shadow, and Yuuri does not even see a set of eyes looking at him even as the head turns to watch them as they pass.

“…What was that?” Yuuri whispers when the shadow figure is long gone behind them.

“A soul,” Victor murmurs, sounding rather pitying. “The Wastes is full of them. They attach themselves to living people, desperate for a way out of here. Luckily, there was only the one. But if there had been more, we might have been in trouble.”

“…So people that die, they get sent here?”

Victor answers with a nod of his head and a hum, then guides Makkachin to go left onto a forked path.

Yuuri swallows, gripping tight to Victor’s arm. If…if that’s the case…his mother might be here. Wandering this dreary place alone, a shadow just like the one they passed. What if that _was_ her? Is there a way to tell one soul from the other? Yuuri looks over his shoulder, and the fog has grown so thick that he can’t even tell how far down the path they are from the shadow. He can’t see much of _anything_ , not the trail or the trees or even if the sky above them is dark with nightfall.

Turning forward, Yuuri brings his hand to his head, closing his eyes to will away the sickness in his stomach.

“Are you unwell?” Victor asks, and he pulls Makkachin’s reins to bring them to a halt. Yuuri shakes his head.

“No, no. I’m…it must be because I’m exhausted. I’m fine. We need to make it to the witch before nightfall and I’m the one tagging along on your journey so-“

“If you need to rest then I know a spot-“

“I said I’m fine,” Yuuri cuts back. “I can make it. We _need_ to find the witch.”

He drops his hand away from his head, shakily holding to the front of Makkachin’s saddle with it. The air whistles in Yuuri’s ears a haunting sound, like a chorus of moans and whimpers and cries echoing around them in the grey void that surrounds them. It feels like ice against his skin, like daggers in his gut. Vicchan doesn’t seem to like the atmosphere either; he’s shaking in Yuuri’s hold, squirming and writhing as if he is desperate to escape to _anywhere_ but here.

When Victor finally moves, it’s to direct Makkachin off of the path they were on, down an incline that is steep and bumpy, with a heady scent of marsh wet grounds filling the air, and the sounds of Makkachin’s hooves squishing and squelching in the Earth. Yuuri closes his eyes to make the sensations lighter on his body, as if somehow blocking his sight will make the sickening sounds and the nauseating smells lessen. Victor is quiet behind him, but Yuuri notices how the man feels hotter against his body, his breath warm and unsettling against the nape of Yuuri’s neck.

They continue down the slope until they reach a flat piece of land where Makkachin stops and Victor scoots away from Yuuri’s figure. Yuuri opens his eyes, and he doesn’t find a home that looks like a witch would take residence in, but instead a large hollow tree with moss growing along the outside of its darkened trunk.

Victor hops off of Makkachin, opening his arms for Yuuri to climb down into his grasp.

“What about the witch?” Yuuri questions. He tries to move, but dizziness hits him and he slides quicker off of Makkachin’s saddle than expected. Victor catches him before he can tumble to the ground, holding Yuuri steady in his arms. Vicchan leaps down from Yuuri’s grasp and onto the ground, sniffing at the wet dirt leading up to the tree’s opening.

“You should rest first,” Victor says, taking the burlap sack off of Makkachin’s saddle. Yuuri shakes his head in protest, but his legs feel like jelly and he can’t even fight off Victor as the other man currently drags him to the tree.

“No. No, I don’t want to. I’m fine. We can keep going. I don’t want to be-“

“You’re not being a burden. It’s getting late anyways. I don’t like traveling when it’s dark.”

“We could have continued, though. Even if it got dark, we could have still made it to the witch’s home if we got close,” Yuuri persists. He feels too sick to feel guilty, but there’s still frustration burning in his veins. If this witch can give him answers, if _someone_ can _finally_ give him answers, he doesn’t want to wait a single second more than he needs to.

“Mind the circle,” Victor instructs, stepping over a patch of black soil just before he ducks his head as he enters the tree’s opening. Yuuri steps over it too, looking over his shoulder as once again, Vicchan hesitates to follow.

“You can’t stay out there,” Yuuri tells the puppy, who whimpers and sniffs at the ground, wagging his tail. It’s difficult to do, but Yuuri manages to pull himself away from Victor to stagger to the mouth of the tree’s opening, frowning at the dog. “Come on, you _know_ you can’t stay out there.”

Yuuri steps over the circle’s edge, reaches out to grab at Vicchan with wobbly hands. Vicchan jumps out of Yuuri’s reach, whimpering like he’s _begging_ Yuuri not to take him inside. Victor approaches from behind, looking at Vicchan with a raised eyebrow.

“What is it now?”

“He’s acting strange again,” Yuuri murmurs, slightly worried. He turns to look at the tree, eyebrows furrowing. “There…isn’t some person inside there that’ll try to kill me, is there? He - uh - he usually acts like this when that happens.”

“There isn’t anyone in there that’s going to kill you,” Victor says, slowly blinking. “Just me, and _I’m_ not going to kill you.”

“I’d sure hope not,” Yuuri murmurs, a weak smile on his lips. “Be pretty sad for the guy I’ve dreamed about since childhood being the one to kill me.”

There’s a pause. Victor cocks his head to the side.

“You’ve been _dreaming_ about me?” he asks, and there’s a smile etching on his lips that he doesn’t even _try_ to conceal.

Yuuri nods, before he brings nervous hands to his face. “Wait, didn’t I mention that at the tavern? I-“ Mortification starts weighing down on Yuuri’s body, pushing his shoulders down, hunching his body forward as his face begins to sting hot with embarrassment. “Oh god, I thought I - it’s not like I - I didn’t mean to come off as strange when we barely - we don’t even _know_ each other and _ugh_ why did I say _that???_ ”

Victor laughs to himself, shaking his head. “You’re rather cute, are you aware of that?” he asks. Yuuri buries his face into his hands, peeking between his fingers.

“Yes, but from people that tried to kill me.”

“I didn’t hurt you in your dreams, did I?” Victor asks. He steps closer to Yuuri, eyes curious. “What did I do in your dreams? Was I your lover or something?”

“Oh my _god_ , I’m not telling you!” Yuuri exclaims. He makes a grab for Vicchan again, and the puppy jumps just out of his reach, scurrying off to the side where the roots of the tree break out of the soil. “Vicchan!” Yuuri snaps, but the dog does not come forth.

Agitated, Yuuri steps forward again. His weight comes down heavier on the heel of his right foot than intended, knees buckling to take him to the ground as his surroundings begin to turn like they are on an axis. Victor’s hands are on him, gently helping him back to his feet and up against Victor’s chest.

“You need to rest,” Victor says again, but Yuuri pushes back, hand uselessly waving in the area of the roots where Vicchan is hiding.

“No. We need to - I need to get him -“

“He’ll be fine.” Victor is leading Yuuri into the tree’s hollow, a hand curled around Yuuri’s waist. Yuuri turns his head, spotting Makkachin has began to graze again, and Vicchan has stepped out of his hiding spot to plant himself in front of the tree’s opening, still outside the perimeter of the circle.

Victor sets Yuuri down on the ground, the soil strangely dry, roots unearthed and curled around the empty sack Victor was carrying. The space isn’t small, and it looks like it has been used many times before Yuuri has arrived. There’s scraps of paper and empty packets of seeds littering the ground, while along the tree’s inner trunk, there are red flower buds growing along thin black vines, all of them turned towards the center where Yuuri lies.

“Cold?” Victor asks. He crouches down and places a hand to Yuuri’s forehead, and his other to his own. “You don’t feel hot, but you _are_ sweating.”

“I’m probably just exhausted,” Yuuri says. He pushes Victor’s hand away, trying to get himself comfortable in the dirt, which is very very difficult. It’s marshy and wet like the soil outside, but it’s just as uneven with broken twigs and bits of rock resting hidden beneath small dark mounds. “I haven’t rested since Aurelia. A nap. I just need five minutes and we can go.”

Victor clicks his tongue against his teeth, rising to his feet before he goes to the flowers. He strokes his finger against the bulb, light like one would touch a lover, a twitch quick and fleeting appearing in Yuuri’s gut from the sight. The flower blooms under Victor’s touch, the inner parts of its petals orange and red like a fire at the cusp of burning. As the flower opens, so do the others, one by one blooming and opening themselves up to Victor and the smile that begins to move across his face.

The air becomes imbued with heat, radiating inwards and encompassing Yuuri in a warmth that eases a sigh from his chapped lips. He hasn’t felt this warm in _such_ a long time. Not since he left his tower. Not since his mother enveloped him in a hug Yuuri didn’t know would be her last, but was filled with just as much warmth and comfort.

Victor turns to him, getting back to his knees and taking his burlap sack into his hands.

“Red Eyes,” Victor explains to Yuuri’s slightly puzzled expression, pulling free a flask of water that he hands to Yuuri. “They radiate heat when they get touched. I got the seeds from Lilia and been growing them in here so that way I don’t need to start a fire. Warm?”

Yuuri nods, taking a small sip, relishing the feel of the water going down his throat and wetting his lips. He nurses the flask, looking out to the mouth of the tree where Vicchan sits watching him, then shakes the flask as if _that_ might be enough motivation for the pup to come inside and have a drink. Vicchan instead stretches himself in front of the circle, digging his snout into the wet soil to give another huff.

“Where’d you find him?” Victor asks.

“Hmm? Uh. In an alleyway. I think he was abandoned,” Yuuri explains. He hands Victor back the flask of water, then tries again to situate himself in the dirt for a nap. Five minutes. Just five minutes.

“Here. So you don’t get dirtier,” Victor says, offering…a blanket that he pulls from the burlap sack. He unfolds it and spreads it out on the patch of soil beside him, then pats it in invitation, a smile on his lips. Yuuri awkwardly touches at his face and begins to wipe at the dirt and grime, only stopping when Victor reaches into his sack and pulls out another flask of water and a small piece of cloth that he wets.

“How does that thing hold so much but look like it’s empty?” Yuuri questions, then gives an unflattering squawk as Victor smushes the wet cloth against his face and starts to viciously scrub off the dirt from Yuuri’s skin.

“It’s from Lilia too, enchanted. Holds almost anything that I put into it. Food stays fresh, water doesn’t spill, and the bag is lighter than a feather,” Victor explains. He eases up on the scrubbing to cup Yuuri’s face in his palm, the smile on his lips warm. “There. Better than you were before.”

His hand lingers on Yuuri’s face, his touch light. Victor’s eyes move over the shape of Yuuri’s cheek, drinking in the honeyed and mystified glow of Yuuri’s eyes. For once, Yuuri doesn’t look away. Though, he believes that he couldn’t look away even if he wanted, even if he tried. They stare at each other, watch each other and commit every little detail of the other’s features to its finite memory. The shadows caused by the glow of the Red Eyes around them create shapes across the planes of their cheeks, creating new distinctions of Victor’s face for Yuuri to fall dreamily in desire with each and every one.

Eventually, it is Victor that breaks the gaze, and he does so with his head turning away and his eyes closed tight as though he were in excruciating pain. “Is there something wrong?” Yuuri asks as a noise rumbles from Victor’s chest that the other man tries to keep from exiting past his tightly pulled lips.

“I’m fine,” Victor manages, and he puts space in between the two of them, turning his body away to lie on the dirt ground nowhere near to where Yuuri is seated. “We should go to bed.”

Yuuri turns to the mouth of the tree where Vicchan still sits at the circle’s edge, watching him from the outside. He then turns to Victor’s back, nervously gripping at the blanket.

“But what about the Lady?” Yuuri asks.

“The circle won’t let her in. Or the souls,” Victor reassures. He gives a yawn, but it sounds rather faux, stretching his body out against the dirt. “So long as the circle remains in tact and not a single speck is out of alignment.”

“And Vicchan? Or Makkachin?”

“They’ll be fine. Souls can’t physically do anything to you unless you give them shape. And I told you, the Lady has no interest in a dog and a horse.” Now, Victor turns his body to face Yuuri, propping his head up with his hand. “You don’t seem to be feeling all that ill now.”

Yuuri huffs, lying down on the blanket. “I told you we could have continued…we didn’t have to stop all because of me.”

“But you _are_ feeling better now, yes?”

The tired flutter of Yuuri’s lashes seem more than enough of an answer.

“Don’t you want to lie here with me?” Yuuri asks before he can register the words on his tongue. When Victor gives a curious raise of his eyebrow, Yuuri then backpedals and adds with a stammer, “O-on the blanket! So, you don’t - you know - the dirt and your sleep being uncomfortable and - um - things.”

Victor chuckles. “Things,” he repeats, shaking his head, but still rising up to his feet regardless, kneeling beside Yuuri on the blanket. He stretches out against the fabric, but he maintains a small distance in between them, like an invisible line Victor marked for himself to not cross. The air feels warmer now. Yuuri’s cheeks feel like fire.

“Better?” Victor asks, “or would you want to cuddle?”

Yuuri immediately turns over to his other side so Victor can’t see how red he’s becoming.

“N-No I don’t need it,” he stammers. Timidly, he curls his fingers against the fabric of the blanket, finding it soft, comforting, almost like home. Almost.

His eyes are fluttering, and Yuuri fails to stifle his yawn once more. “Just five minutes,” he says aloud, but the words slur under his drowsy tongue, cheek pressing itself into the soft cotton of the blanket. “Just five minutes.”

Victor’s response is one more chuckle, this one sounding against the nape of Yuuri’s neck, warm and kind.

“Five more minutes,” he murmurs, and silence sweeps over them with the dark.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri isn’t sure what it is that stirs him from sleep, but when he finds his eyes slowly blinking themselves open, he is met with warmth not radiating from the Red Eyes, but from a lone candle burning inches from his face.

He sits up, rubbing the few dredges of his sleep determined to urge him back down onto the blanket, and turns to the space beside him. To Yuuri’s mild shock, Victor is not resting at his side, but there is a note, along with a small loaf of bread and a sharpened knife.

The Red Eyes are no longer open and warming Yuuri with their heat; the buds are now closed up, pinched tight with a reddened glow at the base of their stems flickering in an out like a withering flame. It’s colder in the tree now, and Yuuri brings the blanket around himself while he takes hold of the note and brings it close to the candle for light.

_Gone hunting. Will be back in the morning. Here’s some bread if you get hungry. There’s some water and dried meat in the sack as well. And though I hope you won’t need to use it for anything other than preparing a snack, I left you a knife. Be careful with it!_

_And one more thing. Please, don’t leave the tree. No matter what._

_Victor_

Yuuri looks to the mouth of the tree now, where the darkness seeps through, but not the misty fog that Yuuri sees surrounding the perimeter, behind the border of the circle drawn in the soil. It’s quiet. Too quiet. No sounds from the outside that Yuuri can manage to hear over his own shuddered breath and beating heart.

Hunting. But couldn’t that wait until the sun rose? What animals are even in a place like this other than the monsters that Victor and the man from the hovel alluded to? To that, Yuuri’s body gives an unpleasant shiver, and stirs himself to his feet, a cold numbness in his legs. He goes to the sack and withdrawals the knife, the blade wrapped up in a piece of blue cloth, and cautiously steps towards the tree’s opening with the candle setting his path aglow.

He doesn’t go past the circle, just far enough that the tips of his boots barely touch it. The fog is high and thick; Yuuri can’t see the ground or any footsteps to give a hint as to where Victor might have wandered off to. He doesn’t see Makkachin anywhere in the dark, and to Yuuri’s discomfort, he doesn’t see Vicchan either.

_Don’t leave the tree. Don’t leave the tree no matter what._

Yuuri gives a dry swallow. The Lady has no need for a horse or a dog, no soul would bring either of them harm. And…Yuuri surely would hear a monster by now if it were close, the heaviness of its feet digging into the wet earth, its hungry snarls and growls as it hunts for its nightly meal. Yuuri doesn’t know how to fight a beast off anyways, doesn’t know the landscape of the Wastes, wouldn’t know the first place to go and look for Vicchan or for Victor. He should just stay here. He should just stay put where he is and-

There.

There in the fog.

There’s a shadow.

Yuuri’s breath jumps in his throat, the scream too smothered by fear to erupt from his chest. He retreats back inside the tree, nearly blowing the candle out as his lungs nervously hiccup air in. Looking over his shoulder, Yuuri gauges how far the knife is from where he sits huddled up by the tree’s opening. Would he have enough time to run? What if they have a weapon of their own? What if it’s Victor?

What if it’s the Lady?

Yuuri takes a cautious peek from around the bend of the tree’s opening, careful with the candle that begins to drip its wax on the soil he’s kneeling on. The shadow is now no longer in the distance, but is instead standing just at the edge of the circle, staring down at it. Though the fog is thick, they don’t take on an distinctive shape other than a person, no details of their face or their body coming into vision.

A soul.

Yuuri relaxes for only a second.

He stays hidden, waiting for the soul’s next move, watching as they tepidly move from left to right in front of the tree’s opening to better crane their neck for a look inside. With their left hand, they reach out past the circle, and their limb is nothing but wispy black smoke.

“Come out,” they whisper, and their voice is so faint and quiet.

Yuuri curls himself further against the interior of the tree, his hand gripping the candle starting to tremble. The soul leans their head forward, standing on the tips of their toes, half of their body hanging over the barrier of the circle. “…I want to leave this place…I don’t belong here…” they whisper, and their voice takes on a sharper edge, one of contempt and anger. “I don’t belong here, I don’t _belong here_.”

A soul can’t harm unless it’s given shape. But what does that _mean?_ It would be better if Yuuri remains hidden, but it doesn’t look like the soul intends to leave anytime soon. They start to pace around the circle’s edge, trying to look into the tree as best as they can, murmuring words charged with anger that sound as though they were being spat from the mouth, if the soul had mouth to spit with.

“Come out,” they slur. “Come out, come out, _come out_.”

The knife feels heavy in Yuuri’s hand as he grips hold of the handle. Just demand it to leave, he thinks with a hard swallow. It can’t harm him, but Yuuri can scare it away if it knows it shouldn’t dare _try_ to harm him. His legs feel wobbly as he stands and brandishes the knife, raising the candle up with its dripping wax towards the mouth of the tree.

He peers out, still keeping the majority of his body hidden, but it’s enough for the soul to stop their pacing and turn their head in Yuuri’s direction. Yuuri points the tip of the knife in their direction, and mentally hisses for the trembles of his hand to cease.

“Leave,” Yuuri demands. “I can’t do anything for you so just _go_.”

The soul stands there in silence, the outline of their shadowy form blurring into the mist of the fog. Then, they straighten back their shoulders and push out their chest, and they look bigger now than they did before, _angrier_.

“You did this,” they hiss. “You filthy little whore, _you did this to me!_ ”

The breath Yuuri sucks in between his clenched teeth hurts his chest. No. No, it can’t be. But the moment he lets that thought spark inside his head, the outline of the shadow solidifies into the figure of a man, and dark brown eyes are glaring right at Yuuri.

"That’s right," the shadow snarls, "you know who I am. You remember what you did to me."

They take a step forward, and the outline of the circle suddenly crackles with purple energy as if they were walking upon a bolt of lightning. But it doesn’t look like it hurts the shadow, the steely determination of their eyes rattling Yuuri to the core. "Say my name," the figure demands as the outline of their jaw forms, the armor that they wear defining itself in dark glints. "Say my name and give me form."

"Stay away from me! You - you did it, didn’t you?! You took my mother away from me!" Yuuri shouts, aiming the knife at the shadow’s neck while keeping his distance from the edge of the circle. A line develops over the blank slate of the shadow’s face: a haughty little smirk.

"So what if I did? She was getting in the way of what I wanted, what was _mine_."

The confirmation is a dagger to Yuuri’s gut. His knees buckle from the revelation, but he keeps the knife out, teeth gritting hard from damning and hissing the shadow’s name.

"I was _never_ yours. And if you’re stuck in this awful place then that’s exactly what a monster like you deserves."

The shadow laughs. " _I’m_ the monster? Yet, you are willing to spread your legs for a man that is _truly_ monstrous."

There’s a noise of surprise that passes a Yuuri’s lips without his permission, and the shadow chuckles at it. "I’ve learned about him in the Wastes, from the souls he’s killed. Did you know he gouged out a traveler’s heart with his teeth? That he killed his own family?"

"B-Be quiet! You don’t know anything about him!"

"Neither do you."

Yuuri bites the tip of his tongue. The magic continues to crackle and hiss as the shadow pushes itself further onto the rim of the circle.

"Has he taken you yet?" the shadow inquires. "Maybe that might be my one regret, to not have taken you the moment I saw you. I tried to be a gentleman, though. I tried to court you and promise you my affection and love and you turned it away. You sent me to this desolate place where all these pitiful souls wander, where I could not be summoned back by the Hawker or the Storyteller due to no one else knowing I am dead."

They brace their hands against air, and purple magic sparks up to form a barrier that ripples and crackles like it’s about to break at any second. The candle wax is starting to drip onto Yuuri’s hand, burning him, but his grip is too tight from fear to release it.

"I’ll kill you," the shadow says, and they sound so sure of it. "I’ll trap you here so I can do whatever I want to with you. Make you cry, make you beg for me, make you wish you hadn’t done what you did to me. Because you’re mine and a Hero always gets what they want."

Yuuri drops his gaze to the circle’s edge. It’s still violently crackling, but the circle is still unbroken. He looks back up at the figure, hissing in a breath of air through his teeth. "A name. That’s what gives a soul shape, isn’t it?" Yuuri asks. The shadow stops their pushing on the barrier, their eyes cold. "My memories of you may give you enough power to take on this shape to scare me, but it’s not enough to break that barrier so you can do actual harm."

Yuuri lowers the knife. "So, if I don’t say your name, then you can’t do anything."

The shadow laughs. "Don’t get so comfortable. I’ll find a way inside. I’ll get in there and wrap my hands around your throat and _squeeze_ that pretty little neck of yours." They raise their fist up and bring it down, the barrier sparking on impact. "I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, _I’ll kill you_."

They continue to bang their fists and curse and yell, but they do not cross the circle as Yuuri’s lips purse tight. He registers the burn of wax on his hand and drops the candle with a small yelp. The small flame extinguishes itself in an instant, leaving Yuuri in darkness.

With wobbly legs, he goes back to the blanket, and grabs one of the water flasks to pour on his hand and soothe the sting. Then, Yuuri lies down on the blanket, knife tucked in close to his chest, and watches the shadow repeat their mantra of ‘I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you’, the circle sparking with energy to keep them out.

Just five minutes, Yuuri’s eyelids beg, his bones scream. Just try to sleep for five minutes. But he doesn’t dare to close his eyes. Not for one second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm done with school for at least one week and i'm sorry for the lack of updates i'm really trying to get these stories together OTL


	10. Sing Sweet Nightingale

_Storyteller,_

_I know not of the cordial manner your brother wishes me to behave in, nor do I feel the urge to stifle the feelings that bloom in my chest when I am in the presence of your beauty. His hatred of humanity, his lust for power, his detest of charity - all these things that make him into such a vile being, I cannot imagine you sharing the same traits. So why should you share the same title? If you once upon a time both existed as the same united being, and for whatever reason it may be that caused you to split into the individuals that I know of and call ’Storytellers’, then you are only the good and he is all that is rotten._

_Forgive my unkind words._

_I will be returning to the Capital post-haste after we visit the Wastes. It is just as depressing of a place as you envisioned: endlessly cold and horribly dark. The souls there hold onto the hope that their loved ones still alive will keep the memory of them afloat in the halls of Aurelia. But it is up to the Hawker to keep their Stories alive through the Minstrel’s tales, so they do not have to haunt these lands for eternity until they finally smolder into nothingness._

_I wish to return to you faster. I wish that I can say that it is you that holds my heart when the villagers cling to my arm and bat their eyes at me, and ask who the Champion wishes to hold dear against thine breast if not them. Storyteller: I do not like to call you that, even though you don’t have a name that is your own that I can let roll from my tongue in sweet sighs. I only think of your Brother when I say the name ‘Storyteller”, and forgive me, but I abhor him as much as he despises me._

_Please do not think of me for being so brash with my feelings, but I would like to refer to you as ‘My Dearest’ from now on; until the last page of my Story turns to the end and I become nothing but a husk of a shadow, a soul, I want you, My Dearest, to be in my heart forever._

_All my love,_

_Your Champion_

 

“What’re you reading?”

Leo jumps in his spot on the ground, immediately shoving the letter into his shirt and out of Leroy’s curious line of sight. The Hero gives a quirk of his eyebrow and scoots closer to Leo, baring a charming grin. “What is it? A love letter? Let me see, let me see-“

“It’s nothing, really-“

“I get love letters all the time! Who is it? A Maiden? A Scullery Maid? Surely not a Princess. They don’t go for Stable Boys, I’m afraid.”

Leo turns away so his frown doesn’t spit something back hot and agitated at Leroy’s blithe smile. He’s _very much_ aware that a Princess or a Prince would want nothing to do with a young lad that smells of hay and horses. No need to rub salt in the wound.

Leroy doesn’t pick up on the irritation settling over Leo’s shoulders. He playfully nudges at Leo’s left one instead, glancing out to the open fire that they have burning to keep themselves warm in the nightfall. “But I’m sure you’ll get someone when the Storyteller makes you both Heroes after we’ve found this boy. You’ll have your pick of the finest in the land!” the other man boasts, and he leans back onto his hands. “People just throw themselves at you, to be honest. Shower you with presents, affection, favors, everything. It gets exhausting sometimes, but it’s the job of a Hero!”

“…Doesn’t that seem kind of…empty?” Leo asks. The crackle of the fire is hypnotic, and he stares into the orange glow, watches the way the fire licks around the bundle of broken twigs and dried up leaves as they burn. “They only love you because you’re a Hero, because that’s who they’re _told_ they’re supposed to love. They don’t love you because of who you are as a person, and they wouldn’t care about you if you were just as big of a nobody as they were.”

Leroy goes silent, stumped for only a second, before he gives a laugh and good-naturedly slaps Leo on the back. “Don’t be silly! People love Jean-Jacques _because_ I’m Jean-Jacques! There may be tons of Heroes in our land that have done amazing feats, but the love that I get showered with is one-hundred percent genuine!”

He turns to the fire, and his big smile grows smaller, gentler. “Besides, I know if anything at all, Isabella loves me for me.”

“…Isabella?” Leo asks in confusion, and Leroy’s smile once again expands nice and wide.

“Well since you’re _so curious_ -“ Leroy starts as he jumps to his feet and reaches for the satchel hanging on the saddle of his horse tied to a nearby tree. He digs through it, pulling out a seeing mirror and a flask before his hand procures a dainty pink handkerchief with an embroidered ‘I’, and smothers the garment over his face. “My lovely Isabella is my one true love and we’re going to get married in a field of flowers and have a dozen kids-“

“U-Uh, yeah, that’s - that’s interesting,” Leo awkwardly stammers. And Leroy probably would have continued to go into excruciating detail on the matters of his wedding - the type of cake they’ll have, the guests they’ll invite, the songs that will be sung to celebrate the union of Jean-Jacques Leroy and Isabella Yang’s Stories and their undying love - until there is a rustle of the bushes to the left of their campsite, Otabek emerging with a sack filled with nuts and berries.

Leroy immediately goes quiet, back to that distrustful gaze he took when Otabek excused himself to forage for food and _not_ listen to the Hero’s ramblings about their journey as Leo tried to start the fire. Otabek takes a spot beside Leo and wordlessly offers the sack over. Leo does not have the time to accept nor deny, since Leroy immediately rushes to the vacant side of Leo and snaps, “You’ve been gone awhile! Are you sure you were _just_ picking these ‘berries and nuts’?”

Otabek looks exhausted, but he still answers with a tired sigh. “If you don’t want to eat them, then you don’t have to.”

“I’m just saying that we should make sure that whatever diets we are feeding ourselves need to be rich in nutrients so we can be able to sustain the journey from this forest to Aurelia!” Leroy says in defense, clapping a hand on Leo’s shoulders like Leo _too_ is somehow in agreement.

Otabek blinks. “You’re right,” he mutters, setting the sack aside. “Maybe _you_ should pick out the meals we should be eating. There’s some berry bushels not too far from the camp. I scouted out some apple trees as well, but not sure about grain or seeds we can eat in these parts.”

Leroy blinks, then gives a cough. “Y-Yeah, I’m right! I’ll - I’ll get right to it and find us all a hearty meal worthy of Heroes! Just - you two stay put right here, got it?” Again, he gives Leo’s shoulder a squeeze, silent camaraderie that is anything but subtle. The Hero rises to his feet and goes to his horse again to collect his sword and satchel. Giving a farewell nod to the two, he steps over the protection circle drawn in the dirt, and disappears into the darkness shortly after.

“You’ve become chummy with him,” Otabek says when Leroy is gone, and takes a handful of berries to his mouth. Leo scoffs, plucking a berry from the sack and rolls it between his thumb and pointer finger.

“I don’t know what it is about me that makes him just want to talk,” Leo mutters more to himself than to Otabek beside him. He takes the time to remove the letter from beneath his shirt, popping the berry into his mouth so the sweet flavor explodes on his tongue as he bites into it.

“What does this new one say? Any clues?” Otabek asks, leaning in close.

“Not much. The Champion mentions something about there being _two_ Storytellers, but they used to be one being. One of them sounds exactly like the Storyteller we’re familiar with, but the one that the Champion writes to - and I think the one that has been writing those other letters - is the other Storyteller,” Leo explains.

“Two Storytellers,” Otabek mutters under his breath. “So what happened to the other one? The Good one?”

Leo furrows his eyebrows. “I don’t know. These letters must be old. I don’t even remember there being two Storytellers before, and we definitely should have heard of something happening to them.”

“So then why did the Witch have these letters? Did she know about this second Storyteller too? Her and her son?”

Leo shakes his head again, unsure.

They look over the contents of the letter again, eyebrows turned down in thought and puzzlement, working over the riddle of the letter that they have yet found enough knowledge to decipher. It sounds no more than a love letter, at least to Leo. Whoever this Storyteller is - this second Storyteller, this apparently beautiful and kind and loving Storyteller - the Champion loved them with all their heart.

Turning the letter over, Leo sees words written on the back.

“…I think this is another spell,” he says, holding the letter out and away from him. “I don’t want another tree sprouting. We were able to shake off Leroy about there not being a tower and instead just a giant tree, but he won’t believe another tree just _growing_ from out of nowhere from our campsite.”

Otabek takes the letter and reads it. “…It doesn’t sound like the spell that created that tree. That one said something about ‘setting you free’…maybe by destroying the tower, that was a way of setting someone free.”

“Free? Free from what?”

“…A home to come back to. Setting someone free to start a new life elsewhere.”

Leo closes his eyes tight. “There was only the beggar woman and the son. We both agree she was the one collecting these letters for whatever reason…you think she was the one that made those spells?”

Otabek shrugs. “Maybe. It could have been this Champion and the Good Storyteller too.” Turning the letter over to read its contents and then back to read the spell, he adds, “The handwriting is almost similar.”

“Okay, so let’s just say that _maybe_ the Witch made the spell. I mean, that’s what Witches do. We’re not sure what this Champion does and the Storyteller - well, at least _our_ Storyteller - doesn’t do magic like conjuring trees,” Leo hypothesizes. He pulls his knees to his chest and wrinkles his nose at Otabek still studying the letter. “If the spells were made by her, why did she need to write them down? She would have known them by heart, wouldn’t she?”

“She was old. She might have been forgetful.”

“She didn’t seem like the kind to be forgetful,” Leo mutters. He tucks his chin into the crook of his arm and stares deeper into the fire. “…Maybe…maybe they weren’t for her.”

“…The son?”

“I-I mean,” Leo feels his face growing warm, “Well, he _was_ the only other person that lived with her. She didn’t talk to anyone in town and it’s not like she made friends. Maybe the spells were for him to know for…some reason.”

Otabek hums, and gives a small nod of his head. “…Let’s say what you’re saying is right. Then that would mean if the first spell was for him, she was intending for him to be the one to destroy the tower and all evidence they were there…and run away and be free,” he murmurs. Turning the letter back around so the spell faces upwards, he then says, “And that would mean this spell is for him too…”

The man rises to his feet with the letter, and puts a good amount of distance between the two of them. “If this sprouts, run,” Otabek says. Leo scurries to his feet, bracing himself for the worst.

The air is warm as Otabek reads in a hushed voice: ‘Moonlight, starlight, beauty same. In the night, I call your name. Moonlight starlight, beauty same. In the night, I call your name.’

It’s the same as before: the letter disappears from Otabek’s fingers in a quick flash of light, though in this instance the light burns a hot shade of violet. The sparks float in the air in front of Otabek like small stars themselves, and slowly, they arrange themselves to form lines, angles, _words_.

 

_Victor Nikiforov_

 

As quickly as the name appears, it disappears in another bright flash of violet light and with a loud noise that whistles across the darkened sky.

Leo swallows hard, and wills away the tremble he feels in his bones that brings his knees to knock themselves together. “Okay, no trees. That’s - that’s a good thing.”

Otabek stands still, fingers pinched together as if he were still holding onto the note, his eyes studying the air where the name once floated in the space. Then, there’s a sudden flash of urgency in his eyes, and the man turns sharply on his heel to run to his horse tied to the tree. His return is just as quickly as his departure, and in Otabek’s hands, he clings tightly to the mirror stolen from Gerhardt’s corpse.

“If these letters are meant for the son,” Otabek mumbles, and Leo isn’t sure if he’s talking to him, or mumbling only to himself and allowing Leo to hear his line of thinking, “then that name must mean something for the son too.”

Leo raises an eye at Otabek as the other gets comfortable on the ground, staring intensely at his reflection in the mirror. “What are you going to do with that?”

“I’ve heard stories about how Hero’s get magical favors from the Storyteller. Enchanted things to help them on their journey, but nothing that peasants could be permitted to use,” Otabek explains. “I was wondering about this mirror and the flask, but I think now I found a way how we can use this to help us.”

Leo crouches at Otabek’s side, peering over his shoulder, seeing his own reflection. Otabek’s hands look like they’re trembling as he holds tight to the mirror and whispers under his breath: “Victor Nikiforov”.

Leo sees their reflections swirl together, a blurring of colors and shadows to create a foggy mess behind the glass of the mirror. The outer rim of the mirror glows a hypnotic green light, and Leo feels himself go tense as the fog in the mirror thins away…

…And return to reflect their befuddled expressions.

“…Um…” Leo leans back and away from Otabek, who gives the mirror a frustrated shake. “Maybe we need more than a name? Or maybe only a Hero can use it? We could ask Leroy about it-“

“No. We don’t involve him,” Otabek says curtly, looking at Leo out the corner of his eye. “If we start asking him about the mirror, then he’ll get suspicious about us.”

“He’s _already_ suspicious about us. Or - uh, well - suspicious about you.”

“And I don’t want to make that worse,” Otabek says, and pockets the mirror for now. “I don’t trust him. I know there’s something about him that is bad-“

“But if he’s the _only one_ that knows how the mirror works and this would help us find the son and rescue my parents, then we should at least _try_.”

Otabek turns his nose up at the thought. “We’re almost to Aurelia. I can ask someone else about it-“ He quickly goes silent when the bushes begin to rustle, and out trails Leroy empty-handed, but with plenty scratches across his face and a leaf in his hair. Leo puts distance in between him and Otabek, rising to his feet with a nervous smile.

“O-Oh, you didn’t get anything?”

Leroy gives a huff, swatting the leaf free from his hair.

“Er, I was just thinking that it’s late enough as it is and who knows what monsters might be lurking around in these woods. Not that _I_ couldn’t handle them or anything! But I need to stay alive to make sure that you two do what you’re supposed to do and I can’t do that searching for some fruit in the dark. So! I’ll wake up bright and early tomorrow morning and fix us breakfast, okay!”

Leo nods. “Um, right, okay.”

Otabek doesn’t respond, just takes another handful of berries and nuts to snack on.

There’s an awkward silence that lingers between the three of them, dissipating only when Leroy gives an unnecessarily loud ‘a- _hem_ ’ and marches over to take Leo by the arm. “Stable Boy! Let’s go for one more check around the circle’s perimeter. I wouldn’t want any beasts lingering around here while we go to sleep!”

There is no chance of putting up even the slightest bit of resistance. Leroy is strong, and he drags Leo away from the warmth of the campfire and Otabek’s telling glare - ‘ _don’t say anything, don’t say a word_ ’ - and back over the circle and into the dark bushes. The Hero only takes Leo so far from the camp, before they stop near a tree stump that Leroy takes a seat upon.

“I’m going to be honest with you, Stable Boy,” Leroy says, and it’s strange to hear the Hero sound so serious, “but I have a feeling that the Delinquent might be trying to sabotage our mission.”

Leo blinks, then shakes his head a little too hard in denial and laughs a forced laugh.

“N-No! Otabek isn’t trying to sabotage anything! He’s - he’s just really intense, that’s all.”

Leroy crosses his arms over his chest. “Well he was the one that suggested I go to the village while you went to go find the tower. And while I found very cheerful company that enjoyed my presence, I didn’t find any clues about what happened to Gerhardt or the son.” His eyes get more solemn, and his lips purse in thought. “In fact, I only got more questions. The Undertaker claimed he hasn’t buried a beggar woman or heard about Gerhardt even visiting the town. And when I tried to speak of the crime, it was like no one even knew the event happened or that you two were even gone.”

Leo keeps quiet, tension drawing the muscles in his legs tight.

“And when I tried to ask you both to come to the town after you two couldn’t find the tower, it was the Delinquent that said we shouldn’t. I mean, your explanation beforehand of you two sending the town into a small panic was sound, but now I can’t help but feel like if I would have maybe shown you to the Undertaker, it would have jogged his memory, jogged _anyone’s_ memory.”

“…But that doesn’t mean that Otabek is trying to sabotage our quest,” Leo defends. Leroy only gives a sigh to that.

“Maybe it’s just normal for a Hero to distrust a criminal. He just seems shady to me. Never talking to me, never wanting to discuss the quest or say what his reasons are for wanting to go to certain places. I’m only assuming we’re going to Aurelia so to meet with the Hawker and ask for his aide, but now I’m wary that you and I are unwillingly playing into his agenda,” Leroy explains. Then, sheepishly, he gives the back of his head a little scratch. “But I mean! I want to believe that anyone can be redeemed with the proper care, and I hope that as one of the Captial’s finest Heroes, I can save you two from being wrapped up in the forces of evil and set you both on proper paths to fine Stories! Because that’s what Heroes do! Help people!!”

Leo nods, balling his hands into fists. He wants to trust Leroy. At least Leroy has given Leo reason to fully trust him. Otabek…Leo can’t deny that it feels like Otabek is acting on an agenda all on his own, though he doesn’t know what the other man hopes to achieve at the end of it. And maybe, maybe Leo has his own agenda too; all he wants is his parents back and right now, he needs to make sure they accomplish this quest as soon as possible so his family does not have to suffer for too long.

The Stable Boy glances at the satchel still attached to Leroy’s hip, and he gives a hard swallow. “Um…this might be a silly question…but do you have a magic mirror?”

Leroy’s smile is brighter than moonlight. “Of course! All Heroes have one! It’s how we keep in contact with the Capital, but it can be used for anything really!” the Hero boasts, already opening his satchel to dig out his mirror. It’s smaller than the one that was on Gerhardt’s person: the frame is less finely detailed as well, and made with tarnished gold rather than the beautifully polished silver of Gerhardt’s mirror. Either Gerhardt barely used the mirror given to him, or Leroy must not be given the finest the Capital has to offer.

“I haven’t been able to get in contact with the Storyteller directly to update him on our status, so I’ve just been talking to the Royal Guard. And sometimes, I check in on my true love from time to time. Just when I’m starting to miss her, you know?” Leroy explains. Leo nods, nothing new that he hasn’t learned from his and Otabek’s attempt at using Gerhardt’s mirror.

“So…so how does it work?” Leo asks. “Do you think…maybe we can use it to find the son?”

Leroy pouts, and shakes his head ‘no’. “Believe me, that was the first thing I thought of. But to use a mirror to even _see_ what the person is doing, you need a name and the mental image of their face. If they have a mirror of their own, it makes the connection a little easier - you’d just need a name, then - but since neither of you remember the son’s full name or what he looks like, then this mirror is pretty useless in finding him.”

Ah, so that was it. Leo hopes his frowning isn’t obvious in the dark, but he does let out a small, defeated sigh. “So…it works best if you know the person you want to see.”

Leroy shrugs. “Well, you don’t have to _know_ the person. You just have to know their name and what they look like. So if you have a drawing or something, you could still-“

“W-Wait.” Leo’s eyes are wide, gears in his head turning and a twitch in his fingers beginning to form. “Drawing? It works with a drawing?”

“Well, it can’t be some doodle of the person. Has to be detailed and as close to the real thing as possible. Seeing the person with your own eyes would probably be better-“

“C-Can I use the mirror? Please?”

Leroy pauses. Then, he raises a suspicious eyebrow at Leo. “What for?”

Leo jumps, throwing his hands behind his back so Leroy doesn’t notice how he’s starting to develop an eager twitch. “I - I, uh - I just really want to use it to…uh…you know…”

He wants to say it. He wants to tell Leroy what he knows. He wants to get some answers and he wants to help his parents, no matter what it takes. But he can’t get the words to form on his tongue: ‘There’s another Storyteller, do you know who they are?’, ’Have you ever heard of the Champion?’, ’Do you know anything about the name ‘Victor Nikiforov’?’, etc.

But before Leo can force those questions from where they sit fluttering in his chest like nervous butterflies, Leroy gives him another big, bright grin.

“ _Oh_. I understand.”

“…You…you do?”

Leroy waves the mirror in Leo’s direction. “You want to check on your sweetheart that wrote you that letter, huh?”

The blush on Leo’s face burns hot in an instant. “W-What?! N-No! That’s - I - that’s not-“

Leroy rises to his feet and waves away Leo’s explanation, already handing over the mirror with a cheeky little grin. “It’s alright! I understand, it must be lonesome traveling with two strangers on a long quest without the chance of seeing your lover. Checking in on Isabella and speaking with her might be the only thing that keeps me sane on my long quests that take me far from home!”

Leo stares at the mirror being offered, then looks to Leroy’s smile, then back to the mirror. Awkwardly, he takes it into his grasp.

“Thanks,” Leo murmurs and licks at his lips. He’s not even sure if this would work. What if the mysterious man the son drew at the tower isn’t the Victor Nikiforov Leo assumes he is? No doubt Leroy might start to be suspicious if Leo fails to summon up an image of his ‘lover’, and he can’t _possibly_ let Otabek know that he’s told Leroy even _this_ much. He stares at his reflection, lips tightly pulled in a line, hands trembling.

“Oh!” Leroy suddenly shouts, and it makes Leo jump with a startled yell. “Right, right! I’ll just give you some space for yourself. Though I have to say to not use it for anything indecent! A Hero’s items can’t be used for anything crude!”

And then Leroy takes two steps back, and turns around to face the dark forest behind them. Leo watches him for a second, before he turns his attention back on the mirror and swallows. Well, it’s worth a try. It it will help find the son faster. If it will help his parents be freed sooner.

He keeps his voice low and holds the mirror close to his chest, picturing the drawing of the man - silver hair, blue eyes, fair skin, dashing smile - as he whispers: ‘Victor Nikiforov’.

The same thing happens as before. The colors swirl into a foggy cloud behind the glass of the mirror and the outer rim of the mirror begins to glow green. But soon, the foggy grey begins to swirl into a lilac cloud as the glow grows brighter and brighter, illuminating Leo’s face in the dark and making him wince away from its shining light. The lilac clouds fade into a white smoke, until finally, Leo isn’t looking at his reflection in the mirror any longer, but at a plot of wet soil.

He hears noises from the mirror that sound like heavy footfalls squelching in the dirt, and something breathing heavily with each step. It sounds like the snorts and snarls of a monster, hungrily searching for its next meal. But…but that doesn’t make any sense.

“U-Uh, so when we look in the mirror, we’re supposed to see…”

“Oh, right! Well, you’re supposed to be seeing whatever it is that the person you’re contacting is seeing. If they have a mirror, then of course they’ll see you and you can talk with them, but right now if your lover doesn’t have a mirror of their own, you’ll just have to settle for just looking through their eyes,” Leroy explains. Though Leo isn’t looking at the man, it’s like he can hear the other’s smile. “Are they cute? What are they looking at? I know Isabella likes to knit at times; I like watching her knit scarves whenever I call on her.”

Leo is barely listening to Leroy speak, just keeping his confused expression focused on the mirror in his hands. This is what Victor Nikiforov is seeing? No, no this can’t be right. Maybe - maybe Leo messed up somehow. Maybe he didn’t picture the image right in his head. Maybe his mind wandered to thoughts about there being any creatures in this forest and somehow the images got switched?

The mirror gives a low hungry growl as the image shifts upwards. There’s fog, thick and heavy with darkened silhouettes flittering in and out of the mist. There is no shape to them, no form; they walk as though they are in a daze, past the line of vision of whatever eyes Leo is looking through. And though it is faint, in the distance, there is a light. It’s a soft glow, like one that emits from a lantern. The mirror gives a hungry snarl, and the vision charges forward at a speed that is inhuman.

Leo’s grasp is sweating, his mouth twisting, a cry wishing to erupt from his throat for whoever it is holding the lantern to run! Watch out!

The glow of the lantern seems to brighten in intensity as Victor - no, this can’t be a person, this can’t be a _human_. What is this? What’s going _on??_

The fog disappears with a flash of light from the lantern, and the mirror stops advancing forward. Leo sees a figure dresses in long blue and grey silk robes, a woman from the shape of of her body and the long tresses of silver hair that mimics the streaks of falling stars. The gaze moves upupup - she stands a tall foreboding height just like the Storyteller, Leo surmises - until it pauses on her round face, skin deathly white and glowing eyes leaking a stream of tears.

The mirror rattled with a hungry growl.

The woman raises her bare palm forward, and with her other hand she raises her glowing lantern high above her head.

_CRASH!_

Leo jumps with a scream as the visage of the woman disappears in an instant, the glass of the mirror shattering as though a dagger buried its blade into it with a force strong enough to kill. He drops the mirror on the ground, and watches as the last few bits of magic sizzle and hiss green sparks. Leo’s mouth remains open, heart racing too fast in his chest and hands trembling at his sides.

"What happened?!" Leroy’s voice bellows from behind, the Hero rushing to Leo’s side to gaze down at his now shattered mirror lying in the shadows of the grass. "What did you see? What did you _do?_ "

"I - I don’t know, I-" The words hide from Leo’s tongue, and he wheezes in a hiss of air. He reaches down to pick the mirror off the ground and carefully turns it over in his grasp. "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to break it. I - I don’t even know how it broke in the first place-"

"Let me see it," Leroy says, taking the mirror from Leo to inspect for himself. He’s quiet, and it’s a bit unnerving if Leo is being completely honest. But he holds his tongue regardless, and watches the Hero carefully for his next move.

And Leo is not sure if it is the nerves that maybe frazzled his brain, or the exhaustion that maybe made him hallucinate it, or maybe even a trickery of nightfall’s shadows and the sounds of the forest, but in one moment, it looks like the blues of Leroy’s eyes turn to a bloody red. With his mouth that he normally curls in a smile, he twists it into a disgusted frown that looks familiar and at the same time foreign.

"Little sister," Leroy says, but it doesn’t sound like Leroy. It’s a husk of a voice: weakened, angry and sending a cold chill up Leo’s spine.

"W-What?"

Leroy looks up at Leo, and his eyes are back to their gentle blue and he’s smiling blithely once more. "Hmm? I didn’t say anything. But don’t worry about this! Mirrors break all the time. Once we get to Aurelia, I’ll find someone to fix it! Your clumsiness is forgiven, Stable Boy, so there’s no need for that pale face!"

The Hero claps a chummy hand on Leo’s shoulder, pocketing the mirror into his satchel for now. "Come! Let us return back to the camp and catch some rest. We have to wake up bright and early tomorrow after all for breakfast!"

Leo knows what he heard, or at least, he knows what he _thinks_ he heard. The memory of Otabek and that soft feminine voice that rolled off his tongue in the presence of the Storyteller flashes at the forefront of Leo’s mind, and the similarity only brings a throb to Leo’s head. In the time that it takes for Leroy to usher Leo back to the camp, and take a spot by the fire that is beginning to smolder down to cinders, he only grows more confused.

Otabek is curled up to the right of the fire and facing the opposite direction, silent for now, but surely once Leroy has his back turned he’ll inquire what words were spoken between Leo and the Hero. Leroy takes up the first watch, and urges Leo once more that there’s no need to fret over broken items, before he plants himself on the outer edge of the circle and keeps his eyes sharp.

It’s warm by the fire, but Leo feels cold.

He feels confused, he feels uncertain

He feels terrified.

 

* * *

 

 

Yuuri wakes to someone calling his name, and a hand lightly touching his cheek. His head throws back with a yell, and with the hand that is still deathly gripping the dagger from the night before, swipes it blindly at the air.

“Woah!” a voice shouts, and someone grabs at Yuuri’s wrist to wrestle the dagger out of his grasp. Yuuri brings up his legs as the weight of the other person comes crushing down on him, bracing his foot against their stomach.

“Get off of me! No! No!”

“Yuuri! Yuuri, it’s me!”

Yuuri forces his eyes awake, vision blurred with sleep, though slowly starting to clarify itself. The warming glow of the Red Eyes has once again surrounded the inside of the tree, and above Yuuri, Victor looks down at him with concern. He offers a smile that is crooked. “Are you okay? Did you have a nightmare?”

For a few seconds, all Yuuri can do is try and catch his breath. His skin is slick with sweat, and his heart feels like it’s trying to jump up and hide in his throat from the scare. Victor’s grip on Yuuri’s wrist lessens, and he brings his free hand to cup Yuuri’s cheek. “Everything is alright. You’re alright, okay?”

“…I…I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-“ Yuuri directs his gaze to the opening of the tree. The fog has thinned and there is enough light emitting from the outside for Yuuri to guess that it must be early morning if not the mid-afternoon. Daylight. How long has he been asleep? How long has it been since Gerhardt disappeared from his spot just on the outer rim of the protection circle?

He places a hand to his chest and swallows his spit, then breathes in deeply through his nose. Victor doesn’t move his hand from Yuuri’s cheek, his thumb lightly thumbing along the side of Yuuri’s cheekbone. “Did something happen while I was gone?” Victor asks.

“…A Soul,” Yuuri murmurs. “He tried to get in past the barrier. He - I - I don’t think we’re safe in these woods and I - I don’t know what to do-“

“We’re fine,” Victor reassures, taking Yuuri’s face into his grasp. “It can’t harm you. It doesn’t have form. And we’re almost at Lilia’s. We’ll be safe there, I promise.”

Yuuri meets Victor’s eyes, becoming stiff under Victor’s touch. “What happened to your face?” Yuuri asks aloud. Immediately, Victor pulls his hands away from Yuuri’s face to cover his own.

“Nothing, nothing. Just had a nasty accident with a monster I stumbled upon when hunting last night,” Victor says nonchalantly. His fingers don’t quite obscure the fresh scar that runs from the end of his right eyebrow and goes down and across the bridge of his nose to his left cheek. Yuuri almost wants to cry at how painful looks, how _awful_ it must feel.

“Why were you hunting at night?” Yuuri questions. He doesn’t mean for his hands to move on their own, but they push Victor’s away and gently cradles the man’s face. Victor winces when Yuuri brushes his thumb against the scar, Yuuri seeing a bit of blood against the side of his nail. “This isn’t worth a few scraps of meat or berries.”

“It’s fine.” Victor reassures his words with a kiss to Yuuri’s inner wrist that makes Yuuri burn scarlet. “ _I’m_ fine…do you want to eat breakfast before we go?”

Yuuri pulls his hands away and sits on them, too embarrassed to have them resting on his thighs where his eyes are starting down at intensely. “I - um - no. I-I’m quite fine. We should be getting to the witch soon anyways.”

Victor hesitates, before he nods and rises to his feet. “Right…well, come on then.”

Yuuri follows closely behind.

The fog looks no better than it did the yesterday. Matter of fact, it looks even denser, more ominous and full of something wicked lurking just behind the mist. Yuuri jumps with a startled shout when something rubs against his ankles, barely able to spot Vicchan as the puppy yips for Yuuri to pick him up.

“Oh thank god,” Yuuri breathes, holding the puppy tight against his chest. Vicchan begins to lick at his face and his nose and the corners of his eyes where there are still dry traces of his tears. If Yuuri didn’t know better, he’d almost think the dog was trying to console him.

“See? Told you the Wastes had no need for a dog,” Victor reassures, leading Makkachin over by the reins. He pauses and gestures to the saddle, “Would you like to get on first?”

Yuuri nods his head, holding to Vicchan tight as he allows Victor to help him onto the saddle, before Victor climbs next onto Makkachin’s back. From this closeness, Victor smells of the Earth and also of blood. Plus, there’s something else lingering in his clothes that smells like neither. Rather, it’s a stink like Victor is wearing an animal’s hide rather than his purple and blue princely garments.

He gives a snap of the reins and Makkachin whinnies in response, digging his hooves into the wet soil as he trots off and through the fog back towards the way they came. Victor weaves through it, turns left and right and ebbs and flows with Makkachin’s movements, Yuuri kept in place by the bracket of Victor’s arms around him.

“Will she be able to help?” Yuri asks when Makkachin slows to a trot, the fog obscuring the ground below. “Will she be able to tell me who I am and what my Story is?”

“Lilia knows a lot of things. Far more things than one would _want_ a stranger to know about them,” Victor answers.

“If she knows so much, why do people not go to her for their answers and only to the Storyteller?”

“You said so yourself,” Victor kindly chides. “Why trust a witch since they are all crooks anyhow.”

The pout is pulled taut over Yuuri’s lips. “I didn’t mean to sound _biased_ against them, just…well, there must be _some_ reason it is considered illegal to fraternize with a witch.”

“The Storyteller doesn’t want you to do a lot of things that he labels ‘illegal’. Do you know it’s considered illegal to own a magic mirror if you or a family member is not part of the Royal Guard? Or that it is illegal to refuse your newborn child from having their Story told?” Victor says that part with bitter disdain, scoffing under his breath. “The Storyteller just wants you to submit to whatever he wants, regardless of it being _truly_ a crime or not.”

“…So you must not be fond of the Storyteller either,” Yuuri surmises. Victor chuckles warmly against the shell of Yuuri’s ear.

“I suppose you are correct on that,” he murmurs, and doesn’t continue any further than that.

 

 

There is a long stretch of distance and time that passes by till Yuuri sees the silhouette of an abode as the sound of a trickling stream can be heard over the clopping of Makkachin’s hooves. The home is large, three stories tall and made entirely of dark wood and brick. The shutters are a maroon shade that screech as they move forward and back from the breeze that bellows through the Wastes. Crows are perched on the turrets, eyeing Yuuri and Victor as they dismount and Victor ties Makkachin up to a hitch post.

“Is she home?” Yuuri asks, coddling Vicchan to his chest when he hears the pup begin to whimper and whine.

“She should be. Come on, before a soul wanders past here and spots us,” Victor quietly ushers, a hand to the small of Yuuri’s back. He guides Yuuri forward towards a set of rickety stairs that creak and dip with their combined weight, up to a door with an eyeball embedded in the dark rosewood. Victor delivers two sharp knocks against the door; the eye flutters open immediately afterwards, a green pupil staring down at Victor and Yuuri.

It lingers on Yuuri the longest, Vicchan becoming even more squirmy under the eyeball’s terse gaze, till suddenly, Yuuri hears a disdainful click of the tongue.

“ _He’s filthy,_ ” a voice chides, tone filled with utter disgust.

“Lilia, please—“ Victor starts, but the eye shifts its gaze towards him.

“ _I’m having a guest over. My home is not some hostel for you to be dragging in whatever dithering fool you found off the side of the road. At least the_ ** _last_** _one you brought had better hygiene. Come back tomorrow._ ”

It shouldn't be so bothersome to know Yuuri isn't the first one Victor has brought to Lilia. But the words still sting harshly in his chest.

“P-Please, madam. If you have a room I may wash up in—“

“ _Do you have a change of clothes?_ ” Lilia’s voice cuts into Yuuri's offer.

“N-No, I—“

“ _Do you expect me to let you walk around naked then while I have your clothes cleaned. If you could even call those rags you’re wearing clothes._ ”

Yuuri doesn't know if the burn that arises in his cheeks is one of embarrassment or of anger. Perhaps both.

“My mother sewed my clothes and this cloak was a gift from Victor,” Yuuri spits in defense.

The eyeball fans its long eyelashes, and the disembodied voice of Lilia gives a disinterested hum.

“ _And who is your mother? She must have been some beggar woman that found your clothes in a scrap heap._ ”

The burn intensifies and Yuuri grits his teeth.

“She _was_ one. And even though she didn't have much, she still cared for me and loved me. Victor said you would help me so —“

“ _Oh_ ** _did_** _he? Those weren't sweet nothings he was saying to you, were they? I know he has a tendency to ‘butter up’ his conquests._ ”

Victor grabs the doorknob and roughly twists it. “Open the door, Lilia. I won't repeat myself.”

The eye narrows its gaze. “ _Let me save us all the trouble of your visit, Victor. Just like the girl from Fleur, and the prince from Delphine, and each and every person that was trapped in the highest room of the tallest tower that you've brought to me over these many many years, this boy_ ** _cannot break_** —“

Victor grabs hold of the doorknob and throws his body against the door. The force of it shocks Yuuri as the door gets knocked off of its golden hinges and caves through the doorway, the wood splintered and the eye dissolving into a cloud of green mist.

“Come on,” Victor says, breathing harshly as he reaches to guide Yuuri inside. Yuuri steps out of his touch, holding Vicchan tight to his chest. Victor turns to look, confusion in his sparkling eyes. “What is it?”

“...I...I don't think we should go in,” is what Yuuri says. What Yuuri means to say is, “ _I didn't think you were capable of such brute strength._ ”

The words from last night float to the front of Yuuri's mind. _You don’t know anything about him. A man that is truly monstrous._

“It's fine,” Victor reassures, voice softer this time. He manages to coax his arm around Yuuri's shoulders and tugs him to his side. “She’ll help you. I _promise_ she will.”

With no objections or refusal, Yuuri and Victor enter the abode.

It's dark. It’s cold. The floorboards creak with each wary step Yuuri takes, eyes wandering the dark space of what appears to be the main foyer of the home. The walls are dark black with portraits and monster skulls mounted on planks on wood. Above his head, a glass chandelier is home to an intricate spider web, the reflection of a black widow captured in all the crystals that adorn the fixture’s arms.

“Perhaps she is not here?” Yuuri whispers.

Then, the door that was broken down rises from the floor and slams itself back onto its hinges.

“You have _some nerve, boy_ ,” a voice hisses as the chandelier drips something black and thick onto the carpet. It pools and spreads just out of the tips of their feet, until it rises into a peak and shapes itself into a woman. Graceful arms and an elongated neck, a parsed frown and incensed eyes. With her hand, she grabs Victor by the collar of his tunic. “I should turn you into a _flea_ for what you did to my door. That was an _antique_.”

“You wouldn’t open it. What else was I supposed to do?” Victor says, feigning ignorance. The woman — Yuuri suppose _this_ must be Lilia as the darkness shapes itself into a slimming black dress that accentuates her willowy figure — tosses Victor aside. She then lays her gaze on Yuuri and snaps her fingers, light immediately filling the room.

She wrinkles her nose. “He smells as awful as he looks,” she sighs, and her glaring becomes even more pointed when her gaze moves to Vicchan. “…And _what_ is that?”

“Surely you’ve seen a dog before, Lilia.”

“That is no dog.” She opens her palm and from it, a paper fan materializes with a shriek of black smoke. With her other hand, she reaches for Vicchan. “Give it here.”

Yuuri steps out of her reach, Vicchan whimpering and whining against the fabric of his cloak. “Leave him alone! You’re frightening him!”

“Because it knows I’m about to expose it for what it truly is,” Lilia says matter-of-factly. “Now, _give it_.”

Victor steps in between them, eyes stern. “Lilia, it’s a dog. There are other matters that are far more important we need to tend—“

“I believe I told you I have _company_ and don’t have the time to entertain your folly, Victor. What do you want to know about this boy _so badly_ that it cannot wait?” She opens her paper fan and obscures her lips, eyes turning the shade of red as they ghost over Yuuri’s form. “The boy likes powdered sugar cake. He’s drawn images of you since he were a child. He’s still a virgin—“

“S-Stop! Stop!” Yuuri exclaims, thinking as though he might combust into flames out of embarrassment. “We came to you to ask about my Story! That’s all I want to hear!”

Lilia frowns. “I am not the Storyteller, child—“

“He cannot see the Storyteller. We believe the Storyteller might be looking to harm him," Victor explains.

“For what cause?”

“ _We don’t know_ ," Yuuri says, voice warbling with frustration. Honestly, he is getting tired of this roundabout. He is getting _tired_ of not understanding the first thing about himself. He doesn't know, he doesn't know, he doesn't know!!!!

Still clutching to Vicchan fiercely, he steps forward, the angle of his chin defiant as he looks the witch in her eyes.

“If you have no intention to help us, then fine. I _humbly_ apologize for being such a nuisance,” Yuuri spits with fire and anger stewing in his belly, before swiftly turning on the balls of his feet, his tattered cloak fluttering wild with the movement as he starts for the door.

“Y-Yuuri! Hold on!”

“You said there was a river nearby? I’ll just be out for a quick soak—“ Yuuri reaches for the doorknob only for it to twist itself and fling the door open wide. Outside, the fog has thinned incredibly. The forest floor of dirt and dead leaves is visible, scattered all in front of the porch steps. The air smells of seawater and death.

But it is the woman that stands in front of the doorway with her hand poised to knock that truly zaps the air from Yuuri’s lungs, the mesmerizing glow of the lantern in her grasp causing his eyes to dilate into pools of black.

From behind him, he hears Lilia give a sigh. “You’re here early, my Lady.”

The woman’s face is whiter than moonlight, her hair cascading down over her shoulders like melted starlight. Her eyes — her eyes are filled with tears that profusely falling, looking down at Yuuri as though she has been searching for an eternity for him.

“…You’ve came back, Dearest Big Sister,” she breathes, wonderstruck and eyes alight. “You've come _home_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhauhauhauua so the chapter count MIGHT change, might be lower but shouldn't be more than twenty. just so as to gauge how much longer we have OTL


	11. You're Welcome

“Some tea, my Lady?”

The Lady of the Wastes gives a soft hum, one that sends vibrations against the back of Yuuri’s skull due to her face being burrowed in the dirty locks of his hair.

“No, Lilia,” the Lady responds in her gentle tenor, “but you may pour some for my dearest sister.”

Currently, they are seated in Lilia’s parlor room. Or rather, the Lady of the Wastes is seated upon the chaise in Lilia’s parlor room, and Yuuri is pulled against her hip. Victor stands in the doorway with his arms crossed, eyes studying her closely. At his feet, Vicchan does the same.

“Why are you serving the Lady of the Wastes?” Victor questions as Lilia begins to pour a cup. Lilia scoffs at his tone, tightly pursing her lips.

“You must be foolish to think I'd pick and choose who I offer my services to.”

“You wouldn't offer your services to the Storyteller or the Hawker were they to ask,” Victor points out. To that, Lilia clicks her tongue against her teeth.

“That is different. I do not loathe her the way I do them,” she responds curtly, then with a wave of her hand, sends the teacup floating on a porcelain saucer in Yuuri’s direction. It lands on the lacquered table in front of them, just beside Victor’s burlap sack of endless items. He is barely able to reach for it, let alone grasp it; the Lady’s arms are so tightly wound around his body he almost fears she will snap him in two.

“Umm, I think there's some misunderstanding,” Yuuri tries to speak. He pushes aside the silvery tresses of hair that fall over his face when the Lady continues to nuzzle his head affectionately, and once again makes a futile attempt to free himself from her hold since the moment she crossed the threshold of Lilia’s abode. “I’m not your sister. I’m not _anyone’s_ sister. I don't even _have_ siblings.”

Lilia makes a disbelieving scoff behind the black fan that materializes in her grasp. “My lord, you _are_ clueless as to who you are,” she says in a scathing tone. Yuuri would hiss something scathing back, frustration already hot on his tongue, but the Lady _squeezes_ his words back down his gut.

“But you _feel_ like Sister,” she says, and then takes a deep inhale of Yuuri's dirty hair. “And you _smell_ like Sister.”

“He smells like a pigsty, my Lady,” Lilia dryly quips.

“I _know_ I stink!” Yuuri snaps. “If you’ll just let me take a bath—“

“Oh! But I can help clean you up, Sister!”

“That - um - thank you, but I can bathe myself—“ The Lady loosens her hold on Yuuri, only to raise her lantern to his face.

The glow is blinding, and he hears the soft enchanting melody of a lullaby whisper from ear to ear. There’s a soft breeze that wisps through his hair and against his skin, around his arms and between his legs. The touch is discreet, but it is warm. And for the first time for what has felt like aeons upon aeons ago, Yuuri feels like it is his mother’s caress of his cheek, her gentle touch that cards his hair back and runs over the bottom of his now softened lips.

“There,” the Lady speaks, voice tender and earnest. “Now, you _look_ like Sister.”

Yuuri had no idea he had even closed his eyes, nor does he remember his body becoming so lax against the plushness of Lilia's chaise. He looks to his hands, and they are no longer grimy with dirt caked under his fingernails, but look as though they were bathed in fresh milk, his nails finely manicured and shaped.

He's not wearing his old clothes either; it's something black and tightly contorted to the shape of his body, revealing curves and lines he didn't know he possessed. A cluster of diamonds sit themselves just above his beating heart that begins to nervously thump, and the cloak — the cloak is no longer the red and tattered remains Yuuri cherished so dearly, but is now a cloak of black and silver with the cosmos in every stitch, glimmering even now in the dimly lit space.

Yuuri looks to Victor, and the man looks completely at a loss of words, though his cheeks are a stark red. Vicchan seems to like the change of clothing; his tail is furiously wagging, and he begins to yip and eagerly pant. Yuuri then brings his hand to his neck, where he feels the ring his mother left him embedded in the fabric of his collar. Beside it, he feels a smooth stone. Opposite, there is only an empty space.

“...What is all of this?” he murmurs under his breath. Lilia closes her eyes and lightly taps her fan against her lips.

“My Lady, perhaps you should be the one to explain to your ‘dearest sister’ what has occurred in her absence. Maybe even from the beginning of her existence," she suggests in a nonchalant tone.

The Lady of the Wastes gives a shocked gasp, tears falling without reason down her face. “Oh but I can't. I’m no good at Stories or Tales like our brothers are,” she urges, already reaching to pull Yuuri back in for more cuddles. Yuuri quickly dodges her reach, hurrying to Victor’s side and takes hold of the other man’s arm. His cheeks burn when Victor looks at him with mild surprise, and sting even further when he can't even comprehend _why_ he felt so urgent to be at Victor's side.

The Lady has been letting a steady flow of tears fall from her cheeks since her arrival, but Yuuri somehow _feels_ the sadness by the way she bows her shoulders and brings her hands to her bosom. “Do you _truly_ not remember, Sister? Do you not remember me? Remember your Capital or your life before?”

Yuuri’s hold of Victor becomes tighter. He shakes his head ‘no’.

“Oh.” The Lady nods, despondent. “Then...if Miss Lilia says I should, I will try and help you remember. Would - would that be alright?”

Victor moves his arm so as to wrap it around Yuuri's waist, leading him forward to a chair for him to sit. He kneels at Yuuri's side, resting a reassuring hand on his knee.

“If you can, we greatly would appreciate it,” Victor says in earnest. The Lady nods.

Lilia bows her head. “In the meanwhile, I suppose I'll feed you two,” she says with a bothered sigh, turning her nose as she passes Victor and Yuuri on her way out of the parlor room. She gives a pointed glare at Vicchan as she passes him, who responds by hurriedly scrambling underneath the chair Yuuri is seated in.

The Lady brings her lantern onto her lap, running blue fingertips along the golden housing that encases that beautiful glow. “My lantern is not as special as Big Brother’s tome or Little Brother’s amazing stage. As such, I can only Recall an old Story once every year. So, please pay attention.”

Yuuri already has a question ready to leap off his tongue, but the lantern glows and glows and _glows_ until he cannot discern shape from shadow and all is saturated in a bright white light.

Then, darkness.

“Once upon a time,” Yuuri hears the Lady’s voice echo into the abyss, “when the world was born and there was life, there were three magical beings.”

Yuuri sees figures take shape, rising from silvery dust to human form. The first one, an androgynous being with flaxon hair and clothes of black and gold, with a golden halo that sat upon the crown of their head.

“There was the Storyteller, who helped to guide those seeking their purpose and their meaning in life through the Stories they tell,” the Lady’s voice explained, just as a second figure shaped into a man dressed in brightly colored fabrics and gaudy face paint. The stink of perfume makes Yuuri gag, but he cannot even find his hand to block his nose from inhaling it further.

“The Hawker, who helped preserve deceased and dying souls by retelling their Stories on his magnificent stage.”

Lastly, the third figure takes shape into the form of the Lady herself. She seems more willowy, more fragile here than the the way she appeared to them before the Recall. There is no tears filling her grey eyes, and she cradled the lantern close to her chest with the utmost care.

“And - um - that's me. I once was called ‘The Remembrancer’, but no one remembers that, so I suppose ‘The Lady in the Wastes’ will have to do. And, um, I take care of the souls that no one remembers or no one knows of their death, the ones that the Hawker cannot call on his stage. I - I try to make them as happy as I can, but they are usually very upset so, I end up just making sure they do not wander for a long time until they eventually turn to dust.”

The figures disappear in an instant, like a candle blown out by a lone wind. Immediately after, the scenery of a bright and beautiful city surrounds Yuuri. The smells, the sounds, the feeling of cobblestone under his feet and the warm sun on his skin.

“And this is the Capital. You - er - the Storyteller lived here. People would come to ask for consultation and the Storyteller would show them a myriad of possibilities to choose from. People came to the Storyteller for guidance on their marriage, their career aspects, the proper time to have children, et cetera. Any query a person may have, the Storyteller was more than happy to show all the ways it could be answered.”

“You mean there was no Bet?” Victor’s voice is at Yuuri's side, but Yuuri does not see him. He feels Victor’s hand still on his knee, but Yuuri doesn't see that either. He does see the Storyteller though, wandering through the crowds of people with the Royal Guard following the trail of their black and gold cloak.

There is something...familiar about their walk. Something familiar about their face, their smile, their gentle red eyes that look upon the faces of the citizens as they pass. He feels a nervous churning at the base of his gut, and he doesn't know how to make it cease.

“Um, yes, the Bet. That didn't exist. At least, not right now,” the Lady tries to quietly interject, and the scenery is wiped away once more to reveal the halls of a throne room. The chandeliers are made of bronzed gold and shimmer in the rays of the sunlight that come through the windows. There are people present, both commoners and aristocracy, gathered along the sides and situated around a golden throne that the Storyteller is seated upon.

On their lap, there is a small child mesmerized by the pictures that float above her head. She reaches out to touch them with the tips of her fingers, and the moment she does, they burst like a firework into different incarnations of the original, wavering in the air like starlight.

“The Storyteller...they really loved their people. But they knew that they could not be with them in the way they desired. Or at least, I thought _they_ understood. I thought they would be happy with this. I thought that they wouldn't ask for any more than this, or _want_ more than this. But then that _man_ —“ the scenery abruptly shifts without warning, the colors furiously smudging together as a man - a handsome man in silver armor unlike that of what the Royal Guard wears - appears at the Storyteller’s feet, taking the Storyteller’s hand in his own to kiss along their knuckles.

“That **_man_** —“ another angry swipe of color appears, stark red and black as Yuuri hears what sounds like glass shattering. It is the throne room, but it is swallowed in the darkness of nightfall. Two figures lie sprawled on the floor; one is a woman with honey gold ringlets and is significantly larger than the man that lies beside her, who is thinner and frailer and wears a heavy black cloak of stars.

The woman raises her face for Yuuri to see, and though it is filled with fright and youth that Yuuri has never once seen before in his life, he knows. He knows the shape, the curve of her lips, the shimmer of those red eyes, and that gentle gasp of wonder.

“Mother,” Yuuri chokes out, heart aching. “ _Mother_ —“

“That man did this to you. He made you split into two. He _broke_ you.” There is anger warbling in the Lady’s throat as she speaks, and there becomes no consistency as images fly by with every smudge of color and distortion of shape.

Yuuri sees the woman - his mother, his Dearest Mother — dance with the handsome man in the silver armor in a ballroom of white marble and gold. He sees her writing letter after letter under the glow of candlelight, sealing each envelope with a kiss that sparks purple and green magic from her soft lips. He sees her settling comfortably in the homes of others, rocking babies in the cradle of her arms as she sings to them a lullaby Yuuri remembers often being whispered in his ears. Beside her, the man in silver armor smiles an expression Yuuri can only describe as ‘true love’.

He sees his mother being happy and alive.

Being _human._

“It's all his fault. It's _his fault_ that you broke in two and made Big Brother so weak, so _hungry for power_. It's _his fault_ that Big Brother turned into such an awful, vile being. It's **_his fault_**. He made you _leave me_. Why did you _leave me?!_ ”

The sensations begin to claw themselves up Yuuri's body: anger, heartache, loneliness and despair as the image of his mother melts away and replaces it with darkness. The willowy man in black from before is wrinkled and old, his thin mouth smeared red and crimson eyes hollowed and void of emotion. He shuffles through the darkness with a gait, reaching towards Yuuri with spindle-like fingers as smoke licks up his legs and shrieks out of his orifices.

“ _He made Big Brother do that_ ** _awful thing_** _to you! He ruined everything! Why couldn't you be happy with us?! With me?! Why did you leave me for_ ** _him_** _?! I hate him! I hate him I hate him I_ ** _hate him I HATE HIM_** —“

Yuuri can't close his eyes from the figure that is _running_ towards him. He can't turn away from the voices _screaming_ at him. So, he does what he can.

He screams himself.

“That's _enough!_ ”

In an instant, darkness swallows the image of the man before he draws close enough to touch Yuuri's cheek. And in the darkness, Yuuri sees the faint glow of the lantern. Slowly, the features of the parlor room transition into view: the old paintings, the dimly lit chandeliers, and the tea that is now resting on the lacquered table as it becomes cold.

Victor's arms are tightly wound around Yuuri, who somehow has crumpled to the floor with his arms over his head the way a child would when scared of a terrifying tale. He would feel embarrassed if he weren't still trembling, and a cold sweat wasn't threatening to break over his brow. Victor's heart is a calming drum against Yuuri's cheek. Yuuri allows his body to indulge in the sound, if only for this one moment.

The Lady is standing with the lantern high above her head, her hair in tangled disarray and face pale and sickly. She gasps, and tears begin to fill her eyes.

“Oh.” She checks her lantern. The glow is less bright, flickering in and out behind the crystal glass. “Oh - oh no. I - I didn't mean to—“ the sniffling prevents her from finishing her words. “Oh _Sister_ , I'm so sorry. I'm _so sorry_.”

She falls to her knees and tries to hold Yuuri against her. Victor pulls him back before she can graze her fingertips against Yuuri’s sweating cheek, a hand reaching for his dagger on his hip.

“Stay back,” he says, the threat low in his throat. The Lady tries to reach for Yuuri anyways, desperation in her tear-filled eyes.

“Please, please let her remember me! I don't want to be forgotten anymore! I don't want to be ignored! Sister! Sister, _please_ remember!”

Yuuri's eyes scrunch tight. “I'm not your sister. I'm _not_ my Mother,” he hisses through his teeth. His mother. His mother was the Storyteller all this time? Or at least, one part of a broken whole Storyteller that existed once upon a time.

She could have told Yuuri who he was. She _knew_ who Yuuri was. She could have told Yuuri _everything._

Why? _Why?_

“It seems that I will have to be the one to explain things after all,” Lilia’s dissatisfied voice floats from the hallway, and the clicking of her heels against the flooring signal her arrival, along with the smell of something hot and delicious wafting into Yuuri's nose.

Lilia pushes into the parlor room a cart layered with plated of sliced meat, roasted vegetables, goblets of mead and bowls of freshly cut fruit. “My Lady,” Lilia starts without even looking in their direction, “perhaps you should lie down. You seem distressed.”

The Lady blinks away her tears. Sniffling, she rises to her feet.

“I-I suppose I am a bit tired,” she murmurs, though seemingly reluctant to leave. “May Sister lie down with me?” she then asks. Yuuri curls further into Victor’s hold as an answer.

“She’ll be here when you awake, My Lady. Rest and replenish your lantern,” Lilia calmly assures. There's softness to her voice that wasn't present before, but does the job of making the Lady swallow down any tearful protest that can arise.

The Lady nods her head, cradling the lantern to her chest. “I - I shall only be gone for a moment,” she says to Yuuri in a mumble, tucking her chin down to hide her shameful tears. With that, she briskly leaves the parlor room, taking with her a chill of frost and the choking feelings of pain and misery that nearly strangled Yuuri’s throat.

Victor’s hand goes to Yuuri’s cheek. “Are you alright?” he asks, concerned. Yuuri makes an affirming grunt, hissing in a few sharp takes of air.

“If we are related,” Yuuri starts, struggling to sit back in the chair, “it would explain why their magic has such an effect on me.” He wipes the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his garment, eyes cast downwards in thought. “…She was the Storyteller all this time…all this time I’ve spent wondering who I was and what was my purpose and _why_ is all of this happening to me and she _knew_.”

“That is only a _part_ of the circumstances, Boy,” Lilia chides. Her black fan appears in her hands with a shriek of smoke, and with it, she cuts through the air. Three porcelain plates go flying outwards, serving cuts of meat and vegetables onto their surface as forks and knives leap from the cart and chase after them as they fly. One plate goes to Victor and the other sits itself on Yuuri’s lap. The third plate — one strictly meat — lands on the floor in front of Vicchan.

“Oh.” Yuuri reaches to pull the plate away as Vicchan sniffs at it. “I don’t think he should eat—“

“I made that plate special for the mutt,” Lilia curtly states. “It will be able to eat it just fine.”

Vicchan sniffs at the meat, noses at it and paws at it, before eventually taking a piece to nibble on. Yuuri watches him carefully, and only after Vicchan has taken a few more bites and comfortably nuzzles against Yuuri’s ankle does he allow himself to relax.

“So,” Lilia starts, seating herself on the chaise where the Lady sat, “she told you the beginning, I assume?”

“She told of one Storyteller splitting into two,” Victor says, prodding at his own piece of meat with a furrowed expression. “Which, I don’t recall such a thing ever happening. The entire populace would have known about there being _two_ Storytellers, wouldn’t they? Or that one of them has disappeared and we’ve been stuck with the tyrant all these years.”

“The Storyteller is very powerful.” Lilia gives her fan a flutter, conjuring an image of the Storyteller’s original form, before the image shatters itself into the two separate beings witnessed in the Recall. “Even when they were split, they both wielded magic that could unravel the very basis of reality and time. However, it wasn’t a _clean_ split.”

Yuuri sees the image of his mother — young and beautiful and happy — growing taller and larger, while the man beside her — pale and dark and wrinkled -- continued to grow thinner and thinner. “One Storyteller — your ‘mother’ — thrived off the happiness of others and the love of her Champion. While the other — the one we know of as the Storyteller now — grew hungry for power that came out of fear and subjugation. The Storyteller was never meant to be split, and whether they knew of this outcome or not, eventually one will be reabsorbed into the other and return as an individual being.”

Lilia’s eyes glow red, and the conjured image of the Storyteller turns into a shadow with venomous red eyes. “The Storyteller knew between the two, he would be the one that would snuff out into nothingness. He could not obtain power the same way his counterpart could, and time was ticking. So, he decided there was only one way to prevent such a thing from occurring.”

The shadow slithers around the visage of Yuuri’s mother, engulfing her, strangling her. Yuuri turns his head and closes his eyes as he hears a dying scream sound in his ear. At his feet, Vicchan begins to tremble and whimper.

“N-No, that can’t be—“ Yuuri tries to say, but Lilia clicks her tongue.

“I am _never_ wrong, Boy.” She narrows her eyes. “The Storyteller killed his counterpart as a way of preventing himself from ceasing to exist.”

“Why haven’t we heard something like that happening if it _was_ true?” Victor counters.

“I told you, even when split, they were still powerful beings. Something like removing the memory of there being such a thing as a combined Storyteller or _two_ Storytellers would be considered child’s play to them.”

“ _You_ remember,” Yuuri says, frowning. “You could have said something. You could have told others what happened and what he did—“

“Allow me to tell you how some bits of magic work before you continue on your reprimanding of my lack of action,” Lilia cuts in. “A trick of the mind — be it erasing a memory, reading one, or even _taking over_ a mind — feels like nothing to a person who has never wielded magic in their life. In some cases, they wouldn’t even realize their minds were being prodded at in the first place. But for a witch, it feels like an incessant itch at the back of their skull, furiously burrowing deeper, _deeper_ until it gets what it wants. As such, we’ve learned to put a barrier against it when we feel it occur. And the Storyteller _knew_ this.”

Lilia leans back against the chaise, tapping her fan against her chin. “So, since the one person with the most power in all the land knows that we few witches scrambled about would not be fooled by his spell, what do you think would be the first thing he would tell his populace of fools in shining armor with deadly weapons to do?”

Yuuri swallows. He thinks of a time when he was in his village square, and the town cryer brought news of another witch slain by a valiant hero and how the townspeople celebrated. How others warned to _never_ fraternize with or listen to the lies that come from a witch’s mouth. How those words of contempt and disbelief came from his own lips moments before stepping into Lilia’s abode.

Lilia hums, her sentiment reached. “I would hold your tongue until I am finished, Boy,” she says. After a brief pause, Yuuri returns to pushing around his own food on his plate.

“…Fine then, the Storyteller killed the other and stolen the memory of them. But how does Yuuri fit into all of this?” Victor speaks aloud. Lilia closes her eyes, and a golden spark of light appears to hover in front of Yuuri’s face.

“The Storyteller can see the paths of all except for their own. I do not know how she prepared for such a thing to happen to her, but she must have left behind some sort of spell that would grant her return, but in a different form. In other words, a reincarnation spell.”

Another orb of light appears beside the one, this one a silvery hue.

“Not only is it is a very difficult spell to cast, it requires a life given for the other. Ninety-nine percent of the time, something goes wrong.”

The silvery orb shatters, and the golden orb crumbles into dust. They fall onto Yuuri’s barely touched food. His appetite vanishes entirely.

“I felt it, sometimes,” Lilia murmurs. “I felt _her_ light even though I knew she had perished. But as soon as I felt it, it would disappear. It came and it went, for years and years. It took me a long time to understand just what was occurring, and when I finally did—“ Yuuri hears the soft sound of a baby crying, a distant echo in his ear. There is a sharp prick at the tip of his finger and at his forehead, a gentle hand on both of his shoulders that seems familiar and unknowable.

Then, a phantom touch of the hand cups his cheek, tilting his face up towards a shimmering light.

He sees a woman with his face. With his eyes. With his smile. And standing behind her, there is a man that looks at him with just as much love and adoration.

“It was only when you were born that her light didn’t disappear,” Lilia’s voice says as an apparition of a haggardly woman shuffles across the parlor room with a wrapped bundle of light tucked carefully in the rags of her cloak, and the saddened and pained expressions appear on the couple’s faces before they disappear with a crack of light. “It was only when the woman you called ‘Mother’ stole you from your real home that her light was able to thrive within you.”

“…No.”

The plate on Yuuri’s lap begins to tremble. “No.”

The memories start flooding his mind as his breath quickens in his chest. His mother’s laughter. His mother’s kisses. Her hugs, her gentle voice. “ _No_.”

Lilia hums behind her fan. “What reason would I have to lie? You had a mother, and a father, _and_ a sister. You had a _family_. And you were taken from them so as to ensure the light within you does not get destroyed by the Storyteller that seeks to retain his power.”

“No.” It seems that’s the only thing Yuuri can say, the only thing he can even _think_. No. No. _No. No._

He stands to his feet, and the plate of food quickly catches itself before it can shatter on the ground. “No, no that’s not — that’s not true. That’s not _true_ —“

Lilia rolls her eyes, looking at Victor with a frown. “I _tell him_ what he wants to know and _this_ is how he reacts—“

“Yuuri—“ Victor tries to reach for his hand, but Yuuri is already frantically moving back and forth from the doorway to the table, breathing growing labored in his chest as his voice trembles in his throat.

“That’s not true. She didn’t — she wouldn’t — I don’t —“

“Your ‘Mother’ kept secrets about the truth of the Storyteller, why would it be hard to believe they would keep secrets about where you _really_ came from?” Lilia asks. There’s a tone of amusement in her voice that Yuuri _doesn't_ like, and with a smiling mouth, she then says, “There’s something _else_ about your ‘Mother’ that still needs to be clarified, though—”

“Lilia, _stop it_.” Victor rises to his feet, reaching to grab Yuuri and stop his pacing about. “Yuuri—“

“It’s not true,” Yuuri protests, shaking his head. “She wouldn’t — she wouldn’t lie to me. She wouldn’t do this. She _wouldn’t_ —“

“Yuuri, love, calm down—“

“Calm down? She’s _laughing_ that the woman I knew as my mother was not only this powerful being that was murdered by her crazy brother, but also stole me away from my _real_ family because her brother is trying to kill some _light_ inside of me!” Yuuri shrieks in hysterics.

“But that _doesn’t make sense_ ,” Victor stresses. He holds Yuuri’s face in his hands, forcing Yuuri to look into the sharp blues of his eyes. “If the Storyteller killed the other, then she couldn’t have been the same woman to have taken you, _nor_ this light thing. It isn’t adding up.”

“Fine then, I was stolen by a complete stranger that _looked_ like my mother. Or the Storyteller. Whoever she was.” Yuuri tightly closes his eyes. All this time he had a mother and a father and a _sister_. All this time he had a family and he wasn’t alone when his ‘mother’ died. Do they know where he is? Do they know of the reason he was taken?

Did they give him up because they knew?

“I don’t understand,” Yuuri chokes out, feeling the corners of his eyes become wet. “Why didn’t she tell me? Why did she tell me the truth about _any_ of this and I had to stumble along nearly getting killed trying to find out?”

Victor’s thumb rubs gentle circles into the side of his cheekbone. “Perhaps we’ll never know,” he murmurs. “But if your real family is out there, then there is nothing stopping you from returning to them.” When Yuuri looks through the sweep of his eyelashes, Victor’s smile is radiant. “I’m certain they will be happy to have you back in their home again after all these years.”

Yuuri swallows hard, bringing a finger to the ring embedded in the collar of his garment. _It will lead you to those that love you dearly._

Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be a gift that brought him to Victor.

Perhaps he was always meant to go looking for his true family.

It is a moment for Yuuri to gather his nerves and calm his worried breath, before he bites at his bottom lip and clenches his fists tight. “…Okay. Then…then that’s where I’m going,” he says, heart squeezing tight in his chest. Victor nods.

The man turns to Lilia, wrapping an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders. “Well then, I _would_ say thank you for your guidance, but as always your help is a double-edged sword,” Victor says with a charming grin.

Lilia does not seem the least bit perturbed, glancing at the face of the grandfather clock stationed in the corner. “Are you leaving at this hour? The sun will be going down soon,” she muses, tapping her fan against her bottom lip. “The Lady came to me with concerns of finding a beast wandering around last night. She fended it off when it foolishly attacked her, but I think if she were to cross paths with it again, she’ll kill it without hesitation.”

Victor’s hand on Yuuri’s shoulder tenses, and his smile twitches. “We shall make camp and I’ll draw up a protection circle,” he says through clenched teeth.

Lilia tuts her tongue. “So you intend to keep him in the dark as the others before him?”

Victor is already spinning Yuuri towards the front door before he has a chance to question just what she means by _that_. “We should be on our way now,” he whispers in Yuuri’s ear, holding Yuuri tight to his hip with a strong hand. Yuuri looks over his shoulder.

“O-Oh, Vicchan, come on—“ Yuuri halts in his spot, eyes widening in shock.

Vicchan lays curled in a ball beside the half-eaten plate of meat, shivering and whimpering in pain. Something strikes hot and painful in Yuuri’s gut, and he pulls himself quickly from Victor’s side. “Vicchan? Vicchan?!”

Yuuri falls to his knees beside the puppy, bringing Vicchan into his arms. “Vicchan! What’s wrong?! What’s happening?!”

“So it _did_ have a response to that spell,” Lilia speaks from her spot on the chaise. Yuuri turns to her, anger blazing beneath his skin and burning at the tip of his tongue.

“You _horrible woman, what did you do?!_ ”

“Don’t be so hysterical,” Lilia chides, rising to her feet. “It just has a little stomachache. Nothing a little bit of brew won’t fix,” she muses as she stands over them, looming down and peering at Vicchan with reddened eyes. “The spell in that bit meat should only affect enchanted beings. Beasts masquerading as monsters or the other way around, things like that. I’m sure it must feel _excruciating_ pain. Like it’s being eaten alive from the inside out.”

“You did _what?_ ” Victor questions the same time Yuuri shoots up to his feet with Vicchan curled against his chest and snaps, “Give me the brew _now_.”

Lilia shakes her head. “No, not yet. There’s still one more thing that needs to be addressed in your little Story,” she says with a sigh, tilting her head towards Victor. “As you said, things still don’t ‘add up’.”

“I don’t care! Give me the brew **_now_** _!_ ” Yuuri shouts.

“I’ll give it to you if _it_ answers two questions.”

Vicchan gives a choked whine. Yuuri feels his lungs twist into a knot.

“You’re _crazy_ ,” he hisses, and immediately starts out of the parlor room towards the first set of cupboards he sees along the walls of the foyer. He roughly grabs at a brass handle and tries to yank it open, but it refuses to budge. “Where is it?! Tell me where it is!” Yuuri yells, banging his fist against the drawer when he hears Vicchan whine and whimper.

“Your stubbornness is irritating, Boy,” Lilia reprimands. When Yuuri turns to hiss a curse between his teeth, the witch is standing right behind him, arms crossed and eyebrows knitted. “I told you, I’ll give you the brew when _it_ answers my questions.”

“He’s a _dog_. He can’t _speak_.”

“And I _told_ you, _it_ is _not_ a _dog_.”

“Lilia, I know you didn’t want us to be here,” Victor says, sounding just as irritated as Yuuri feels. “Just give us the brew so we can _go_.”

“ _Not yet._ ”

Vicchan howls in pain. Yuuri begins to frantically bounce him in his arms to comfort him. “Why are you doing this?” he asks in disbelief. “What _pleasure_ do you gain from doing this to a puppy?!”

“You wanted to know your Story. I’m telling you the last piece of it,” Lilia says, turning her nose upwards. “There’s the mystery of who was the one that cast the reincarnation spell that now placed the Storyteller’s light within you. It couldn’t have been a witch; she wasn’t as close to any witch in particular, but she had to have been close to _someone_ that would willingly give up their life for hers.” Lilia’s eyes turn to Vicchan wriggling in Yuuri’s hold. “Even if they were too incompetent to cast the spell properly so as to not make any ‘hiccups’.”

Yuuri’s hold of Vicchan becomes protective as Lilia materializes her fan, and with her other hand, reaches towards Vicchan. “I would assume that the person that cast that same spell would try and find the reincarnated Storyteller in their new form. I bet they would try to protect them with their life.” Lilia gives a tilt of her head. “I bet they would even steal a baby from a couple in the woods if they knew that was their only chance of keeping the light of their beloved alive.”

Lilia’s hand finds Vicchan’s head. Vicchan’s shriek of pain stabs at Yuuri’s heart.

“Is your form brought about by a curse or because of the botched spell?” Lilia asks Vicchan directly, eyes blood red.

Vicchan writhes and twists and tries to weakly push at Lilia’s hand with his paw. Yuuri reaches to push Lilia’s hand away himself, but she swats at it with her fan. “ _Do not_ interfere, Boy,” she snaps, turning her gaze back on Vicchan. “You cannot hide the truth forever. And I _know_ you are hurting.”

“Please, just _stop this_ —“ Yuuri pleads, but holds his tongue when he hears...

“S-S-Spell.”

It’s weak, barely a rasp of a voice from a scratchy throat. But it still is indeed a voice, one that came from the furry bundle trembling in Yuuri’s arms.

Lilia hums, satisfied. “Are you the Champion that has been missing all this time?” she questions.

Vicchan turns his head towards Yuuri’s struck face, whimpering. “S-S-Sorry, D-Dear-rest," the voice says --  _Vicchan_ says -- as he writhes in Yuuri's arms. "M’ s-s-sorry—“

“No.” Yuuri’s heart leaps into his throat upon hearing that term of endearment said in that same gentle softness, the  _same_ gentle tone his Mother once upon a time let come from her lips. “No. No, stop. No, you’re not— you _can’t be_ —“

Vicchan hides his face into the crook of Yuuri’s arm as Lilia pulls her hand away. 

“I suppose that’s as much of a confession as I’ll wrangle from him,” Lilia says, opening her bare palm and waving her fan over it. A small blue bead appears in the center of her hand, and she holds it out towards Vicchan who pitifully licks it up. “He’ll be fine after a few hours of rest,” she tells Yuuri’s horrified face. “I presume by then, he’ll be more _cooperative_ in filling in the blanks I couldn’t.”

Yuuri doesn’t say a word in response. He doesn’t even feel like he is _breathing_ as he watches the puppy fall asleep in his arms, the last murmurings of ’Sorry My Dearest’ slipping into dog whines and snoring.

Lilia moves away from him and to Victor, bringing her fan to her lips to whisper something in Victor’s ear. Yuuri cannot even focus on trying to hear what she is saying, nor can he bring himself to focus on any of the thoughts or emotions that fly through his mind and bubble and boil over in his heart.

Everything was a lie.

His life, his mother, her death,  _everything_.

The feeling that courses through his body is strange. His bones are rattling, his knees are knocking, his teeth trade off between grinding against each other and nervous clattering. He isn’t quite breathing, more so hyperventilating. His mind is a buzz of erratic thought, though the question of ‘ _why?_ ’ persists and echoes louder and louder and _louder_ —

“Yuuri.”

There are hands on his shoulders. Yuuri looks up into Victor’s eyes, not able to comprehend the pained look on his face. “Yuuri I…I’m going back to that tavern to ask for some directions out of the wastes and towards your parent’s home. In the meantime, you’ll stay with Lilia.”

“W-What?”

“I promise it’ll just be for the night. I’ll be back in the morning to fetch you—“

“I’m _not_ staying with her.” Yuuri forces the words from his throat. Victor starts to rub his shoulders.

“I know you’re upset—“

“Why can’t we just go now? We’ll be able to make it back to the hollow tree, won’t we?”

“Yuuri, _please_. We can’t travel in the dark—“

“But _why_?” Yuuri questions. Then, in a murmured voice, “What is your Story, Victor?”

Victor stares long and hard at Yuuri, biting the inside of his cheek. His hands on Yuuri’s shoulders grip tight enough to hurt, his nails digging into the fabric of Yuuri’s cloak.

“If you leave this place at nightfall, you’ll die before you’ll meet your real parents,” Victor speaks in that same, low threatening voice he spoke to the Lady before. And for a split second in Victor’s eyes, Yuuri swears the beautiful blue of Victor’s irises turn into the slits of a monster. “Do you _want_ that?”

Yuuri cannot find his tongue to answer ‘no’. His head is beginning to throb. His chest is beginning to _hurt_.

Victor releases his grip of Yuuri’s shoulders, taking his silence for the correct answer. “I’ll be back in the morning,” he repeats, briskly passing by Lilia who watches him over the edge of her fan. He pauses just before opening the door to look over his shoulder at Yuuri’s face. There’s something unreadable in his eyes, something locked away that Yuuri can’t chip at and would surely regret if he tried.

But there is something…helpless in Victor’s eyes as well, pained in reasons Yuuri doesn’t understand, but _desperately_ wishes he could.

With a nod of his head, Victor opens the door and disappears into the outside fog.

Silence.

Lilia approaches Yuuri’s side. “Come along, Boy,” she says with her hand resting on the small of Yuuri’s back. “Your meal is getting cold.”

She guides him back into the parlor room, sits him on the chaise and hands Yuuri his abandoned plate, the food now a jumbled heap from his accidental dropping before. Yuuri carefully rests Vicchan on his lap — who curls against the warmth of Yuuri’s stomach and gives a content whimper in his sleep — before taking the plate and the fork offered.

Lilia goes to sit at a chair in the corner. With her fan, she beckons for a book to come float and rest on her lap to read.

Yuuri looks down at his food, but doesn’t eat it. He takes his fork and pushes the food around, but doesn’t bring any of it to his mouth.

“…You said that eventually there will only be one Storyteller,” he speaks in a whisper. “What will…what will happen if I cross paths with the Storyteller that resides in the Capital now?”

The crinkle of Lilia’s fingers turning the page in her book is swift. “…Two things. One, he kills you. Or two, you absorb his power and merge into the singular being you once were before. But in doing so, you will cease to exist the way you are now.”

Lilia brings her book up to her face. “…No more questions, Boy. Eat your food.”

Silence once more.

Yuuri prods at a few pieces of vegetables with his fork and brings it to his mouth to eat. It’s still warm, seasoned with just the right amount of herbs and spices, and possibly the first decent meal he’s eaten since he left his tower.

He manages to take a few more bites, chewing each piece slower and slower. Vicchan nuzzles against his stomach in his sleep.

There’s a drop of water that falls on the skin of his wrist. Then another. Then another, and another, and more.

He rests the plate of food back on the table to bring his fists to his leaking eyes, burrowing the meat of his palms tight at the corners to stop the tears from falling, but it is a futile effort.

Yuuri hasn’t cried since he left the tower, since he found his mother’s body in the dark coldness of night. His mother never liked it when he cried, always kindly murmured about his glass heart that was so easy to break as she stroked his hair and spoke her soothing words. Here and now, Yuuri shatters once more, and the emotions spill quickly from his twisting mouth, his wailing tongue, and his watery eyes.

His mother’s voice is a dimly lit flame in the back of his mind, and the longer into the night he cries, the further and further it flickers until at last, it disappears into nothingness.


End file.
